

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


Chap. Coj)yright No, 

QViaI-P ^2. “h 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 








C 5: 

<L. < 4 

C 

( C 

^ ic C < 

Cv c 


r< 

:c 


c 

<c 

c 

■,c 

■ 1 


C ' 

■ c '<^ * 

c 

<; c t 

V < 

c ■ ' c 

c <• c 

4K C 

<i: c 




cc 


/ ' 




^ C 

< c 

<. c 

c c 

- < c 

4 .t 

^ < C 

S ^ 

> c c 

Sr ^ ^ 

% ^ C 

C c ( 
C CC 

C. c c 

C '^C 
c_ c c 
<C ‘ '(' 

' ^ 

<1 Ca 


cc 

cC < 

a 

CC < 

<C 

cc: 

CtiO 

cc Q 

cc iC 

CC< 

<C C 



k<' 

t 

:C 

-A 


C'i 

I 


C A cc "S5-S ' > 

^ < C; S; 

cl< c < : cCf £ : -f 

CCC Ct -':<C< '■, V;- 

CAX CC"AC.C ^-, 

c cc cc^ ^c:e V 

c c. cc cc, c 

c (C CiC cc V C 

c < cc'cc: , < 

C ' . <C -CC vC: ^ 


^ ccc 
' a c<;^ 




>,.« ‘' 1 


< C 

c c 


%'%- C Q c c. 

iV-k %'S: < 't:t '? i <«E 

V-f-f V ":S. W 

V c c\^ c cf c «- 
c ccfCCK c ^ vAC 


c c < 

C- ^ 
c'^c 2 

c c 

1. 


V-V: Jr' 

: ^::' ^ . s 

L C % 

cr: V c 

‘C <- Ci 

(.C c C 

cC CC 

-, cC c «. 

c c < 

(.< < a 

'( c ((.. 

c < c. 

A. CAC 

r r /'(jt 

C C 


r < c ccl V c ^ 

V V Oc^ X > ^ V 

* r ^ « '.‘A 5 

,-4 l':a, ‘^-I&'v^c *: 

C < «!XA C 

•• t c ■ ' C‘ •■ 

^C C CC < '. 

1; -- < r (; . C' 

•' (?■■ r 'C'ft <■ 'r 


C C ' . '^ ^ ^ 

C C- x . <■ ' < '■ 

c. ■ 'v cr -i ‘C<. 

^CC. ^ ■'. <C,cC 

:4L VC % ' <X ■ . /cc 

r ^cc c c: <c - v 

c c C C cC ;i^C 

C ‘ ^ < : Vc 

■ < ''4C. 


€ 'C*^ < 

CCC. C" 
f €.( c 

cr c 

CC( C 

c ^.. c.'''. <^ 

cc^:; ' C 

C( ( c 

CCc C ' 

cc^- c ■ 'c^v 

ccer 


C 

r 

< 


.(. 

'■„■(: 
^-•- c*> 


f 

c 


(CrC 


(. ^.'.. 

■; A( 

i -LC 


< <■ 

c £ 

c c 
c c 

C C 

c c 
c c 


^ c ■ < csi 

■ '5 

Ci 

4^ < 

4 < 

■ - -A 

r <-'i 

<ic'^ 

M 


■'X 

< ' 


>; X 

C'v 

C* '.• 

CA: 

c<i 

Cc 


















f 


✓ 


■f • 



’*s 





» • 


• •'*;«/* 


I 


4 

• « 

I ' , » 



1 








''trv. 

•r 


» 


•I 

t • 


; 

s ‘ 



(f 

t 


I 1 / » 

.*,*■ 1.1 


• V 


K 


' ’’ ' 1 * ’ ' 


V ,' -' . » 


s .., . r. 


I ' 


I 


‘,S 

■ yp' ^ 


•\ ' 


A ,•<’ 




» ■* ^ 

4 • 

»L.'^Tr r ^ 

' < I 1 • > 

» 




*4 





■ w 


9 

t 


1 




* 






t 

t 


a • 

’ *• 

• V I ‘ ^ 
• , • » •* * 







/ 



The Last Stroke 


LAWRENCE L. LYNCH 


JTnkerton I)ETEf;TivE Seiues— Uuartorly. $1.00 per annum. No, 20. Oet., ISOG. 
Entered at Chicago Postofflce as second-class matter. 

Chicago: LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, 263 Wabash Ave. 





Ir y ma£ Oai,.- ■ 

'^-11 :■ 



■ .■'■'■: IfM , . . . 

Mtt.v.'' v*‘ 


V* . 






B -11 


« « 


to' 

•• '.r^' -. ,' 'A - V'- ' <)" pVij' 

• y.' - . •• ■ ,■ -. -■: 


. 1 


J A 


■-M 
#' • 


*<•' i 

I, ■■■'•.. .. 

r. >' “-\ 1 ■ ' J '• "■ 

■ •.■.•f'-V 

. >v 



-^v.' 



■: 


y r . S’ ■{*»»: *•' ' ■ - .•‘- .• •’«•' ’ilii' .L>J 


."c a 


.»* • 




feSl^Oipte.. ■ ' "" 


•at- . 










* * ' r t ■' ’ ^ 

).; i.vlr^Ai.vii'k^ 


‘ « 



A 



> 


A’' 


' % . V‘ 


'• ♦ 's 


i 


♦T 




/ 




■g .. 


' » 


: ' I ' 


► /• 


VV ' 

:’»:•- 

. 

g-_ _ ',• 

\ 

:*/ 

•-«•■' 

; •,- 
>v • 

•j'' ' , \ 



i 


■ • 

4 





THE LAST STROKE 


BY 

LAWRENC^. LYNCH 

(E. Murdock VanDeventer) 


Author of “Shadowed by Three," “The Lost Witness," “A Slender Clue," 
“A Mountain Mystery,” “The Diamond Coterie,” “Dangerous 
Ground," “Out of a Labyrinth,” “Madeline 
Payne,” and “The Romance of a 
Bomb Thrower.” 


ILLUSTRATED 



LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS 


Entered According to Act of Congress in the Year 1896 by 
WM. H. LEE 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress 
Washington, D. C. 


Table of Contents 


I. 

Something Wrong 

« r > 

9 

II. 

Found .... 


18 

III. 

Nemesis 

^ « • 

32 

IV. 

Ferrars .... 

* , 

41 

V. 

In Consultation 


53 

VI. 

“Which” 

» n 

64 

VII. 

Renunciation 


74 

VIII. 

Trickery 

• t 

87 

IX. 

A Fetter 

r f • 

96 

X. 

This Helps Me 


111 

XI. 

Details . . . 

i ; • 

119 

XII. 

“ Ferriss- Grant ” 


126 

XIII. 

The Lake County Herald 

« • » 

138 

XIV. 

A Ghost . . 


146 

XV. 

Rebellion 


162 

XVI. 

“Out of Reach” 


171 

XVII. 

Ruth Glidden 

• f • 

183 

XVIII. 

Sudden Flittings 


192 

XIX. 

Through the Mail 

* 9 * 

202 

XX. 

A Woman’s Heart . 

f t 

214 

XXI. 

‘ ‘ Quarrelsome Harry ” 

t f • 

226 

XXII. 

In Number Nine 

•r • 

243 

XXIII. 

Two Interviews . 

At# 

253 

XXIV. 

Mrs. Gaston Latham 

( r 

264 

XXV. 

The Last Stroke . 


272 




THE LAST STROKE 


CHAPTER L 


SOMETHING WRONG. 

It was a May morning in Glenville. Pretty, pictur- 
esque Glenville, low lying by the lake shore, with the 
waters of the lake surging to meet it, or coyly receeding 
from it, on the one side, and the green-clad hills rising 
gradually and gently on the other, ending in a belt of 
trees at the very horizon's edge. 

There is little movement in the quiet streets of the 
town at half past eight o'clock in the morning, save for 
the youngsters who, walking, running, leaping, saunter- 
ing or waiting idly, one for another, are, or should be, 
on their way to the school house which stands upon the 
very southernmost outskirts of the town, and a little way 
up the hilly slope, at a reasonably safe remove from the 
willow-fringed lake shore. 

The Glenville school house was one of the earliest pub- 
lic buildings erected in the village, and it had been 
“located” in what was confidently expected to be the 
center of the place. But the new and late-coming impe- 
tus, which had changed the hamlet of half a hundred 
dwellings to one of twenty times that number, and made 
of it a quiet and not too fashionable little summer resort, 

( 9 ) 


10 


THE LAST STROKE 


had carried the business of the place northward, and its 
residences still farther north, thus leaving this seat of 
learning aloof from, and quite above the newer town, in 
isolated and lofty dignity, surrounded by trees; in the 
outskirts, in fact, of a second belt of wood, which girdled 
the lake shore, even as the further and loftier fringe of 
timber outlined the hilltops at the edge of the eastern 
horizon and far away. 

“Les call ’er the ’cademy?” suggested Elias Robbins, 
one of the builders of the school house, and an early set- 
tler of Glenville. “What's to hinder?” 

“Nothin',” declared John Rote, the village oracle. 
“Twill sound first rate.” 

They were standing outside the building, just com- 
pleted and resplendent in two coats of yellow paint, and 
they were just from the labor of putting in, “ hangin’ ” 
the new bell. 

All of masculine Glenville was present, and the other 
sex was not without representation. 

“Suits me down ter the ground!” commented a third 
citizen; and no doubt it would have suited the majority, 
but when Parson Ryder was consulted, he smiled genially 
and shook his head. 

“It won’t do. Pm afraid, Elias,” he said. “We’re only 
a village as yet, you see, and we can’t even dub it the 
High School, except from a geographical point of view. 
However, we are bound to grow, and our titles will come 
with the growTh.” 

The growth, after a time, began ; but it w^as only a sum- 


THE LAST STROKE 


11 


iner growth; and the school house was still a village 
school house with its master and one under, or primary, 
teacher; and to-day there was a frisking group of the 
smaller youngsters rushing about the school yard, while 
the first bell rang out, and half a dozen of the older pupils 
clustered about the girlish under-teacher, full of ques- 
tions and wonder; for Johnny Robbins, whose turn it 
was to ring the bell this week, after watching the clock, 
and the path up the hill, alternately, until the time for the 
first bell had come, and was actually twenty seconds 
past, had reluctantly but firmly seized the rope and began 
to pull. 

Taint no use. Miss Grant; Fll have to do it. He told 
me not to wait for nothin’, never, when ’twas half past 
eight, and so” — cling, clang, cling — “I’m bound” — cling 
— “ter do it!” Clang “yo see,” cling, “even if he aint 
here — ” Clang, clang, clang. 

The boy pulled lustily at the rope for about half as long 
as usual, and then he stopped. 

“You don’t s’pose that clock c’ud be wrong, do yo’, 
Miss Grant? Mr. Brierly’s never been later’n quarter 
past before.” 

Miss Grant turned her wistful and somewhat anxious 
eyes toward the eastern horizon and rested a hand upon 
the shoulder of a tall girl at her side. 

“He may be ill, Johnny,” she said, reluctantly, “or his 
watch may be wrong. He’s sure to come in time for 
morning song service. Come, Meta, let us go in and 
look at those fractions.” 


12 


THE LAST STROKE 


Five — ten — fifteen minutes passed and the two heads 
bent still over book and slate. Twenty minutes, and 
Johnny’s head appeared at the door, half a dozen others 
behind it. 

^‘Has he come, Johnny?” ^ 

“No’m; sha’nt I go an’ see — ” 

But Miss Grant arose, stopping him with a gesture. 
^'He would laugh at us, Johnny.” Then, with another 
look at the anxious faces, “wait until nine o’clock, at 
least.” 

Johnny and his followers went sullenly back to the 
porch and Meta’s lip began to quiver. 

“Somethin’s happened Xo him. Miss Grant,” she whim- 
pered; “I know somethin’ has happened!” 

“Nonsense,” said Miss Grant. But she went to the 
window and called to a little girl at play upon the green. 

“Nellie Fry! Come here, dear.” 

Nellie Fry, an a, b, c student, came running in, her 
yellow locks flying straight out behind her. 

What is it. Miss Grant?” 

“Nellie, did you see Mr. Brierly at breakfast?” 

“Yes’m!” 

“And— quite well?” 

“Why — I guess so. He talked just like he does 
always, and asked the blessin’. He — he ate a lot, too — 
for him. I ’member ma speakin’ of it.” 

“You remember, Nellie.” 

Miss Grant kissed the child and walked to her desk, 
bending over her roll call, and seeming busy over it until 


THE LAST STROKE 


13 


the clock upon the opposite wall struck the hour of nine, 
and Johnny’s face appeared at the door, simultaneously, 
with the last stroke. 

“Sh’ll I ring. Miss Grant?” 

• “Yes.” The girl spoke with sudden decision. “Ring 
the bell, and then go at once to Mrs. Fry’s house and ask 
if anything has happened to detain Mr. Brierly. Don’t 
loiter, Johnny.” 

There was an unwonted flush now upon the girl’s 
usually pale cheeks, and sudden energy in her step and 
voice. 

The school building contained but two rooms, beside 
the large hall, and the cloak rooms upon either side; and 
as the scholars trooped in, taking their respective places 
with more than their usual readiness, but with unusual 
bustle and exchange of whispers and inquiring looks, the 
slender girl went once more to the entrance and looked 
up and down the path from the village. 

There was no one in sight, and she turned and put her 
hand upon the swayiiig bell rope. 

“Stop it, Johnny! There’s surely something wrong! 
Go, now, and ask after Mr. Brierly. • He must be ill!” 

“He’d ’a sent word, sure,” said the boy with conviction, 
as he snatched his hat from its nail. But Miss Grant 
only waved him away and entered the south room, where 
the elder pupils were now, for the most part, assembled. 

“Girls and boys,” she said, the color still burning in 
her cheeks, “something has delayed Mr. Brierly. I hope 
it will be for a short time only. In the meantime, until 


14 


THE LAST STROKE 


we know — know what to expect, you will, of course, keep 
your places and take up your studies. I am sure I can 
trust you to be as quiet and studious as if your teacher 
was here; and while we wait, and I begin my lessons, I 
shall set no monitor over you. I am sure you will not 
need one.” 

The pupils of Charles Brierly were ruled by gentleness 
and love, and they were loyal to so mild a ruler. With 
low whispers, and words of acquiescence, they took up 
their books, and Miss Grant went back to her more rest- 
less small people, leaving the connecting door between 
the north and south rooms open. 

Mrs. Fry’s cottage was in the heart of the village, and 
upon the hillside, but Johnny stayed for nothing, running 
hither, hat in hand, and returning panting, and with a 
troubled face. 

“Miss Grant,” he panted, bursting into her presence 
with scant ceremony, “he aint there! Mrs. Fry says he 
came to school before eight o’clock. He went out while 
she was combin’ Nellie’s hair, an’ she aint seen him 
since!” 

Hilda Grant walked slowly down from her little plat- 
form and advanced, with a waving movement, until she 
stood in the doorway between the two rooms. The color 
had all faded from her face, and she put a hand against 
the door pane as if to steady herself, and seemed to con- 
trol or compose herself with an effort. 

“Boys — children — have any of you seen Mr. Brierly 
this morning?” 


THE LAST STROKE 


15 


For a moment there was utter silence in the school 
room. Then, slowly, and with a sheepish shuffling 
movement, a stolid-faced boy made his way out from one 
of the side seats in Miss Grant’s room, and came toward 
her without speaking. He was meanly dressed in gar- 
ments ill-matched and worse fitting; his arms were abnor- 
mally long, his shoulders rounded and stooping, and his 
eyes were at once dull and furtive. He was the largest 
pupil, and the dullest, in Miss Grant’s charge, and as he 
came toward her, still silent but with his mouth half open, 
some of the little ones tittered audibly. 

“Silence!” said the teacher, sternly. “Peter, come 
here.” Her tone grew suddenly gentle. “Have you 
seen Mr. Brierly this morning?” 

“Uh hum I” The boy stopped short and hung his head. 

“That’s good news, Peter. Tell me where you saw 
him.” 

“Down there,” nodding toward the lake. 

“At the— lake?” 

“Yep!” 

“How long ago, Peter?” 

“’Fore school — hour, maybe.” 

“How far away, Peter?” 

“Big ways. Most by Injun Hill.” 

“Ah! and what was he doing?” 

“Set on ground — lookin’.” 

“Miss Grant!” broke in the boy Johnny. ''He was 
goin’ to shoot at a mark; I guess he’s got a new target 
down there, an’ him an’ some of the boys shoots there. 


16 


THE LAST STROKE 


you know. — Gracious!” his eyes suddenly widening, 
“Dy’u s’pose he’s got hurt, anyway?” 

Miss Grant turned quickly toward the simpleton. 

‘Teter, you are sure it was this morning that you saw 
Mr. Brierly?” 

‘‘Uh hum.” 

“And, was he alone?” 

“Uh hum.” 

“Who else did you see down there, Peter?” 

The boy lifted his arm, shielding his eyes with it as if 
expecting a blow. 

“I bet some one’s tried ter hit him!” commented 
Johnny. 

“Hush, Johnny! Peter, what is it? Did some one 
frighten you?” 

The boy wagged his head. 

“Who was it?” 

“N — Nothin’ — ” Peter began to whimper. 

“You must answer me, Peter; was anyone else by the 
lake? Whom else did you see?” 

“A — a — ghost!” blubbered the boy, and this was all 
she could gain from him. 

And now the children began to whisper, and some of 
the elder to suggest possibilities. 

“Maybe he’s met a tramp.” 

“P’r’aps he’s sprained his ankle!” 

“P’r’aps he’s failed into the lake, teacher,” piped a six- 
year-old. 


THE LAST STROKE 


17 


‘Toll!’’ retorted a small boy. “He kin swim like — 
anything.” 

“Children, be silent I” A look of annoyance had sud- 
denly relaxed the strained, set look of the under teacher’s 
white face as she recalled, at the moment, how she had 
heard Mr. Samuel Doran — president of the board of 
school directors — ask Mr. Brierly to drop in at his office 
that morning to look at some specimen school books. 
That was the evening before, and, doubtless, he was there 
now. 

Miss Grant bit her lip, vexed at her folly and fright. 
But after a moment’s reflection she turned again to 
Johnny Robbins, saying: 

“Johnny, will you go back as far as Mr. Doran’s 
house? Go to the office door, and if Mr. Brierly is there, 
as I think he will be, ask him if he would like me to hear 
his classes until he is at liberty.” 

Again the ready messenger caught up his flapping 
straw hat, while a little flutter of relief ran through the 
school, and Miss Grant went back to her desk, the look 
of vexation still upon her face. 

Five minutes’ brisk trotting brought the boy to Mr. 
Doran’s door, which was much nearer than the Fry 
homestead, and less than five minutes found him again at 
the school house door. 

“Miss Grant,” he cried, excitedly, “he wa’n’t there, 
nor haint been; an’ Mr. Doran’s startin’ right out, with 
two or three other men, to hunt him. He says there’s 
somethin’ wrong about it.” 


CHAPTER 11. 


FOUND. 

^T suppose it’s all right,” said Samuel Doran, as he 
walked toward the school house, followed by three or 
four of the villagers, ‘^called” because of their nearness, 
rather than‘ 'chosen;” “but Brierly’s certainly the last man 
to let any ordinary matter keep him from his post. 
We’ll hear what Miss Grant has to say.” 

Miss Grant met the group at the gate, and when she 
had told them all she had to tell, ending with the testi- 
mony of the boy Peter, and the suggestion concerning 
the target-shooting. 

“Sho!” broke in one of the men, as she was about to 
express her personal opinion and her fears, "that’s the 
top an’ bottom of the hull business! Brierly’s regularly 
took with ashootin’ at a mark. Pve been out with him 
two or three evenin’s of late. He’s just got int’rusted, and 
forgot ter look at his watch. W e’ll find him safe enough 
som’e’res along the bank; let’s cut across the woods.” 

"He must have heard the bell,” objected Mr. Doran, 
"but, of course, if Peter Kramer saw him down there, 
that’s our way. Don’t be anxious. Miss Grant; prob- 
ably Hopkins is right.” 

The road which they followed for some distance ran a 

.fi8) 


THE LAST STROKE 


19 


somewhat devious course through the wood, which one 
entered very soon after leaving the school house. It ran 
along the hillside) near its base, but still somewhat above 
the stretch of ground, fully a hundred yards in width, 
between it and the lake shore. 

Above the road, to eastward, the wooded growth 
climbed the gentle upward slope, growing, as it seemed, 
more and more dense aiid shadowy as .it mounted. But 
between the road and the fiver the trees grew less 
densely, with numerous sunny openings, but with much 
undergrowth, here and there, of ha^el and sumach, wild 
vines, and along the border of the lake the low over- 
hanging scrub willow. 

For more than a fourth of a mile the four men followed 
the road) walking in couples,, and not far apart, arid con- 
tenting themselves with an occasional '‘hallo. Briefly,” 
and with peering into the openings through which they 
could see the lake shore as they passed along. 

A little further on, however, a bit of rising ground cut 
of¥ all sight of the lake for a short distance. It was ail 
oblong mound, so shapely, so evenly proportioned that 
it had become known as the Indian Mound, and was 
believed to have been the work of the aboriginese, a pre- 
historic fortification, or burial place. 

As they came opposite this mound, the man Hopkins 
stopped, saying: 

“Hadn’t a couple of us fellers better go round the 
mound on t’other side? Course, if he’s on the bank, an’ 
all right, he’d ort to hear us — but — ” 


THE LAST STROTCE 


SO 

‘‘Yes/^ broke in the leader, who had been silent and 
very grave for some moments. ^'Go that way, Hopkins, 
and we’ll keep to the road and meet you at the further 
end of the mound.'’ 

They separated silently, and for some moments Mr. 
Doran and his companions walked on, still silent, then — 

“We ought to have brought that simpleton along,” 
Doran said, as if njeditating. “The Kramers live only a 
quarter of a mile beyond the mound, and it must have 
been near here — Stop!”^. 

He drew his companions back from the track, as a 
pony’s head appeared around a curve of the road; and 
then, as a black Shetland and low phaeton came in sight, 
he stepped forward again, and took off his hat. 

He was squarely in the middle of the road, and the 
lady in the little phaeton pulled up her pony and met his 
gaze with a look of mute inquiry. She was a small, fair 
woman, with pale, regular features and large blue eyes. 
She was dressed in mourning, and, beyond a doubt, was 
not a native of Glenville. 

“Excuse my haste, ma’am,” said Doran, coming to the 
side of the phaeton. “I’m James Doran, owner of the 
stable where this horse belongs, and we are out in search 
of our schoolmaster. Have you seen a tall, young man 
along this road anywhere?” 

The lady was silent a moment, then — “Was he a fair 
young man?” she asked, slowly. 

“Yes, tall and fair.” 

The lady gathered up her reins. 


THE LAST STROKE 


21 


*T passed such a person,” she said, “when I drove out 
of town shortly after breakfast. He was going south, as 
I was. It must have been somewhere not far from this 
place.” 

“And — did you see his face?” 

“No; the pony was fresh then, and I was intent upon 
him.” 

She lifted the reins, and then turned as if to speak again 
when the man who had been a silent witness of the little 
dialogue came a step nearer. 

“I s’pose you hav’n’t heard any noise — a pistol shot — 
nor anythin’ like that, have ye, ma’am?” 

“Mercy! No, indeed! Why, what has happened?” 

Before either could answer, there came a shout from 
the direction of the lake shore. 

“Doran, come — quick!” 

They were directly opposite the mound, at its central 
or highest point, and, turning swiftly, James Doran saw 
the man Hopkins at the top of it, waving his arms frant- 
ically. 

“Is he found?” called Doran, moving toward him. 

“Yes. He’s hurt!” 

With the words Hopkins disappeared behind the knoll, 
but Doran was near enough to see that the man’s face 
was scared and pale. He turned and called sharply to 
the lady, who had taken up her whip and was driving on. 

“Madam, stop! There’s a man hurt. Wait there a 
moment; we may need your horse.” The last words 
were uttered as he ran up the mound, his companions 


22 


THE LAST STROKE 


close at his heels. And the lady checked the willing 
pony once more with a look half reluctant, wholly 
troubled. 

‘AVhat a position/’ she said to herself, impatiently, 
‘These villagers are not diffident, upon my word.” 

A few moments only had passed when approaching 
footsteps and the sound of quick panting breaths caused 
her to turn her head, and she saw James Doran running 
swiftly toward her, pale faced, and too full of anxiety to 
be observant of the courtesies. 

“You must let me drive back to town with you, 
madam,” he panted, springing into the little vehicle with 
a force that tried its springs and wrought havoc with the 
voluminous folds of the lady’s gown. “We must have 
the doctor, and — the coroner, too, I fear — at once!” 

He put. out his hand for the reins, but she anticipated 
the movement and struck the pony a sharp and sudden 
blow that sent him galloping townward at the top of his 
speed, the reins still in her two small, perfectly-gloved 
hands. 

For a few moments no word was spoken; then, without 
turning her eyes from the road, she asked: 

“What is it?” 

“Death I’m afraid!” 

“What! Not suicide?” 

“Never. An accident, of course.” 

“How horrible!” The small hands tightened their 
grasp upon the reins, and no other word was spoken until 
they were passing the school house, when she asked, 


THE LAST STROKE 


23 


“Who was it?” 

“Charles Brierly, our head teacher, and a good man.” 

Miss Grant was standing at one of the front windows 
and she leaned anxiously out as the little trap darted past. 

“We can’t stop,” said Doran, as much to himself as to 
his companion. “I must have the pony, ma’am. Where 
can I leave you?” 

“Anywhere here. Is there anything — any message I 
can deliver? I am a stranger, but I understand the need 
of haste. Ought not those pupils to be sent home?” 

He put his hand upon the reins. “Stop him,” he said. 
“You are quick to think, madam. Will vou take a mes- 
sage to the school house — to Miss Grant?” 

“Surely.” 

They had passed the school house and as the pony 
stopped, Doran sprang out and offered his hand, which 
she scarcely touched in alighting. 

“What shall I say?” she asked as she sprang down. 

“See Miss Grant. Tell her privately that Mr. Brierly 
has met with an accident, and that the children must be 
sent home quietly and at once. At once, mind.” 

“I understand.” She turned away with a quick, ner- 
vous movement, but he stopped her. 

“One moment. Your name, please? Your evidence 
may be wanted.” 

“By whom?” 

“By the coroner; to corroborate our story.” 

“I see. I am Mrs. Jamieson; at the Glenville House.” 


24 


THE LAST STROKE 


She turned from him with the last word, and walked 
swiftly back toward the school house. 

Hilda Grant was still at the window. She had made 
no attempt to listen to recitations, or even to call the roll ; 
and she hastened out, at sight of the slight black robed 
figure entering the school yard, her big grey eyes full of 
the question her lips refused to frame. 

They met at the foot of the steps, and Mrs. Jamieson 
spoke at once, as if in reply to the wordless inquiry in 
the other^s face. 

‘T am Mrs. Jamieson,” she said, speaking low, mindful 
of the curious faces peering out from two windows, on 
either side of the open door. ‘T was stopped by Mr. — ” 

‘‘Mr. Doran?” 

“Yes. He wished me to tell you that the teacher, Mr. 


“Brierly?” 

“Yes; that he has met with an accident; and that you 
had better close the school, and send the children 
home quietly, and at once.” 

“Oh!” Suddenly the woman’s small figure swayed; 
she threw out a hand as if for support, and, before the half- 
dazed girl before her could reach her, she sank weakly 
upon the lowest step. “Oh!” she sighed again. “I did not 
realize — I — I believe I am frightened!” And then, as 
Miss Grant bent over her, she added weakly: “Don’t 
mind me. I — I’ll rest here a moment. Send away your 
pupils; I only need rest.” 

When the wondering -children had passed out from the 


THE LAST STROKE 


25 


school rooms, and were scattering, in slow-moving, 
eagerly-talking groups, Hilda Grant stood for a moment 
beside her desk, rigid, and with all the anguish of her 
soul revealed, in this instant of solitude, upon her face. 

“He is dead!” she murmured. know it, I feel it! 
He is dead.” Her voice, even to herself, sounded hard 
and strange. She lifted a cold hand to her eyes, but 
there were no tears there ; and then suddenly, she remem- 
bered her guest. 

A moment later, Mrs. Jamieson, walking weakly up 
the steps, met her coming from the school room with a 
glass of water in her hand, which she proffered silently. 

The stranger drank it eagerly. “Thank you,” she said. 
It is what I need. May I come inside for a little?” 

Hilda led the way in silence, and, when her visitor was 
seated, came and sat down opposite her. “Will you tell 
me what you can?” she asked hesitatingly. 

“Willingly. Only it is so little. I have been for some 
time a guest at the Glenville House, seeking to recover, 
here in your pure air and country quiet, from the effects 
of sorrow and a long illness. I have driven about these 
hills and along the lake shore almost daily.” 

“I have seen you,” said Hilda, “as you drove past more 
than once.” 

“And did you see me this morning?” 

“No.” 

“Still I passed this spot at eight o’clock; I think, per- 
haps, earlier. My physician has cautioned me against 
long drives and this morning I did not go quite so far as 


THE LAST STROKE 


usual, because on yesterday I went too far. I had 
turned my pony toward home just beyond that pretty 
mill where the little streams join the lake, and was driv- 
ing slowly homeward when this Mr. Doran— is not that 
right? — this Mr, Doran stopped me to ask if I had 
seen a man, a tall, fair man — ” 

“And had you?” 

“I told him yes, and in a moment someone appeared at 
the top of the Indian Mound, and called out that the man 
was found.” 

“How — tell me how?” 

Mrs. Jamieson drew back a little and looked into the 
girl’s face with strange intentness. 

“I — I fear he was a friend of yours,” she said in a 
strangely hesitating manner, her eyes swiftly scanning 
the pale face. 

“You fear! Why do you fear? Tell me. You say he 
is injured. Tell me all — the worst!” 

Still the small, erect, black-clad figure drew back, a 
look of sudden understanding and apprehension dawning 
in her face. She moved her lips, but no sound came 
from them. 

“Tell me!” cried the girl again. “In mercy — Oh, 
don’t you understand?” 

“Yes, I understand now.” The lady drew weakly 
back in the seat and seemed to be compelling her own 
eyes and lips to steadiness. 

“Listen! We must be calm — both of us. I— I am not 
strong; I dare not give way. Yes, yes; this is all I can 


THE LAST STROKE 


27 


tell you. The man, Mr. Doran, asked me to wait in the 
road with the pony. He came back soon, and said that 
we must find the doctor and the coroner at once; there 
had been an accident, and the man— the one for whom 
they searched — was dead, he feared.” 

She sprang suddenly to her feet. 

“You must not faint. If you do, I — I cannot help you ; 
I am not strong enough.” 

“i shall not faint,” replied Hilda Grant, in a hard 
strange voice, and she, too, arose quickly, and went with 
straight swift steps through the open door between the 
two rooms and out of sight. 

Mrs. Jamieson stood looking after her for a moment, 
as if in doubt and wonder; then she put up an unsteady 
hand and drew down the gauze veil folded back from her 
close-fitting mourning bonnet. 

“How strange!” she whispered. “She turns from me 
as if — and yet I had to tell her! Ugh! I cannot stay 
here alone. I shall break down, too, and I must not. I 
must not. Here, and alone!” 

A moment she stood irresolute, then walking slowly 
she went put of the school room, down the stone steps, 
and through the gate, townward, slowly at first, and then 
her pace increasing, and a look of apprehension growing 
in her eyes. 

“Oh,” she murmured as she hurried on, “what a hor- 
rible morning!” And then she started hysterically as the 
shriek of the incoming fast mail train struck her ears. 
^‘Oh, how nervous this has made me,” she murmured. 


28 


THE LAST STROKE 


and drew a sigh of relief as she paused unsteadily at the 
door of her hotel. 

For fully fifteen minutes after Hilda Grand had 
reached the empty solitude of her own school room she 
stood crouched against the near wall, her hands clinched 
and hanging straight at her side, her eyes fixed on space. 
Then, with eyes still tearless, but with dry sobs breaking 
from her throat, she tottered to her seat, before the desk, 
and let her face fall forward upon her arms, moaning 
from time to time like some hurt animal, and so heedless 
of all about her that she did not hear a light step in the 
hall without, nor the approach of the man who paused 
in the doorway to gaze at her in troubled surprise. 

He was a tall and slender young fellow, with a hand- 
some face, an eye clear, frank and keen, and a mouth 
which, but for the moustache which shadowed it, might 
have been pronounced too strong for beauty. 

A moment he stood looking with growing pity upon 
the grieving woman, and then he turned and silently tip- 
toed across the room and to the outer door. Standing 
there he seemed to ponder, and then, softly stepping back 
to the vacant platform, he seated himself in the teacher’s 
chair and idly opened the first of the volumes scattered 
over the desk, smiling as he read the name, Charles 
Brierly, written across the fly-leaf. 

“Poor old Charley,” he said to himself as he closed the 
book. “I wonder how he enjoys his pedagogic venture, 
the absurd fellow,” and then by some strange instinct he 
lifted his eyes to the clock on the opposite wall, and the 


THE LAST STROKE 


29 


strangeness of the situation seemed to strike him with 
sudden force and brought him to his feet. 

What did it mean? This silent school room! These 
empty desks and scattered books! Where were the 
pupils? the teacher? And why was that brown-tressed 
head with its hidden face bowed down in that other room, 
in an agony of sorrow? 

Half a dozen quick strides brought him again to the 
door of communication, and this time his strong, firm 
footsteps were heard, and the bowed head lifted itself 
wearily, and the eyes of the two met, each questioning the 
other. 

‘T beg your pardon,” spoke a rich strong voice. ‘'May 
I ask where I shall find Mr. Brierly?” 

Slowly, as if fascinated, the girl came toward him, a 
look almost of terror in her face. 

“Who are you?” she faltered. 

“I am Robert Brierly. I had hoped to find my brother 
here at his post. Will you tell me — ” 

But the sudden cry from her lips checked him, and the 
pent-up tears burst forth as Hilda Grant, her heart wrung 
with pity, flung herself down upon the low platform, and 
sitting there with her face bent upon her sleeves, sobbed 
out her own sorrow in her heart-break of sympathy for 
the grief that must soon overwhelm him and strike the 
happy light from his face. 

Sobs choked her utterance, and the young man stood 
near her uncertain, anxious, and troubled, until from the 
direction of the town the sound of flying wheels smote 


30 


THE LAST STROKE 


their ears, and Hilda sprang to her feet with a sharp cry. 

'T must tell you; you must bear it as well as 1. Hark! 
they are going to him; you must go, too!'’ She turned 
toward the window, swayed heavily, and was caught in 
his arms. 

It was a brief swoon, but when she opened her eyes, 
and looked about her, the sound of the flying wheels was 
dying away in the distance, southward. 

He had found the pail of pure spring water, and applied 
some of it to her hands and temples with the quickness 
and ease of a woman, and he now held a glass to her lips. 

She drank feverishly, put a hand before her eyes, 
raised herself with an effort and seemed to struggle 
mutely for self-control. Then she turned toward him. 

‘T am Hilda Grant,” she said brokenly. 

“My brother’s friend! My sister that is to be!” 

“No, no; not now. Something has happened. You 
should have gone with those men — with the doctor. 
They are going to bring him back.” 

“Miss Grant, sister!” His hands had closed firmly 
upon her wrists, and his voice was firm. “You must tell 
me the worst, quick. Don’t seek to spare me; think of 
him! What is it?” 

“He — he went from home early, with his pistol, they 
say, to shoot at a target. He is dead!” 

“Dead! Charley dead! Quick! Where is he? I 
must see, I must. Oh ! there must be some horrible mis- 
take.” 

He sprang toward the door, but she was before him. 


THE LAST STROKE 


31 


‘‘Go this way. Here is his wheel. Take it. Go south 
— the lake shore — the Indian Mound.” 

A moment later a young man with pallid face, set 
mouth and tragic eyes was flying toward the Indian 
Mound upon a swift wheel, and in the school room, prone 
upon the floor a girl lay in a death-like swoon. 


CHAPTER III. 


NEMESIS. 

‘‘Mr. Brierly, are you strong enough to bear a second 
shock? I must confer with you before — before we 
remove the body.’’ 

It was Doctor Barnes who thus addressed Robert 
Brierly, who, after the first sight of the outstretched fig- 
ure upon the lake shore, and the first shock of horror and 
anguish, had turned away from the group hovering about 
the doctor, as he knelt beside the dead, to face his grief 
alone. 

Doctor Barnes, besides being a skilled physician, pos- 
sessed three other qualities necessary to a successful car- 
eer in medicine — he was prompt to act, practical and 
humane. 

Robert Brierly was leaning against a tall tree, his back 
toward that group by the water’s edge, and his face pressed 
against the tree’s rugged trunk. He lifted his head as 
the doctor spoke, and turned a white, set face toward him. 
The look in his dark eyes was assurance sufficient that 
he was ready to listen and still able to manfully endure 
another blow. 

The two men moved a few steps away, and then the 
doctor said : 


(32) 


THE LAST STROKE 


33 


‘‘I must be brief. You know, do you not, the theory, 
that of these men, as to the cause of this calamity?” 

“It was an accident, of course.” 

“They make it that, or suicide.” 

“Never! Impossible! My brother was a God-fearing 
man, a happy man.” 

“Still, there is a bullet-hole just where self-inflicted 
wounds are oftenest made.” 

Brierly groaned aloud. “Still,” he persisted, “I will 
never believe it.” 

“You need not.” Doctor Barnes sank his voice to a 
yet lower pitch. “Mr. Brierly, there is a second bullet- 
wound in the back!” 

“The back! And that means — ” 

“It means murder, without a doubt. No huntsman 
could so mistake his mark in this open woodland, along 
the lake. Besides, hunting is not allowed so near the 
village. Wait,” as the young man was about to speak, 
“we have no time to discuss motives now, or the possible 
assassin. What I wish to know is, do you want this fact 
known now — at once?” 

“I — I fear I don’t understand. Would you have my 
brother’s name — ” 

“Stop, man! Knowing that these men have already 
jumped at a theory, the thought occurred to me that the 
work of the officers might be made easier if we let the 
theory of accident stand.” 

He broke off, looking keenly at the other. He was a 


34 


THE LAST STROKE 


good judge of faces, and in that of Robert Brierly he had 
not beeii deceived. 

The young man’s form grew suddenly erect and tense, 
his eye keen and resolute. 

“You are right!*’ he said, with sudden energy, as he 
caught at the other’s hand. “They must not be enlight- 
ened yet.” 

“Then, the sooner we are back where we can guard 
this secret, the safer it will be. Come. This is hard for 
you, Mr. Brierly, I know, and I could say much. But 
words, no matter how sincerely sympathetic. Cannot 
lighten such a blow as this. I admire your strength, 
your fortitude, under such a shock. Will you let me add 
that any service I can render as physician, as mat! or 
as friend is yours for the asking?” 

The doctor hesitated a moment, then held out his hand, 
and the four watchers beside the body exchanged quick 
glances of surprise upon seeing the two men grasp hands, 
silently and with solemn faces, and then turn, still silently, 
back to the place where the body lay. 

“Don’t touch that pistol, Doran,” the doctor spoke, in 
his capacity of coroner. 

“Certainly not. Doc. I wanted to feel, if I could, 
whether those side chambers had been discharged or 
not. You see,” he added, rising to his feet, “when we 
saw this, we knew what we had to do, and it has been 
‘hands off.’ We’ve only used our eyes so far forth.” 

“And that I wish to do now with more calmness,’^ said 




THE LAST STROKE 35 

Robert Brierly, coming close to the body and kneeling 
beside it. 

It lay less than six feet from the very water’s edge, the 
body of a tall, slender young man, with a delicate, high- 
bred face that had been fair when living, and was now 
marble-white, save for the blood-stains upon the right 
temple, where the bullet had entered. The hair, of that 
soft blonde color, seen oftenest upon the heads of chil- 
dren, and rarely upon adults, was thick and fine, and long 
enough to frame the handsome face in close half rings 
that no barber’s skill could ever subdue or make straight. 
The hands were long, slender, and soft as a woman’s; the 
feet small and arched, and the form beneath the loose out- 
lines of the blue flannel fatigue suit in which it was clad, 
while slender and full of grace, was well built and not 
lacking in muscle. 

It lay as it had fallen, upon its side, and with one arm 
thrown out and one limb, the left, drawn up. Not far 
from the outstretched right arm and hand lay the pistol, 
a six-shooter, which the brother at once recognized, with 
two of the six chambers empty, a fact which Mr. Doran 
had just discovered, and was now holding in reserve. 

The doctor, upon his discovery of the second bullet- 
wound, had at once flung his own handkerchief over the 
prostrate head, and called for the carriage robe from his 
own phaeton, which, fortunately for the wind and legs of 
the black pony, had stood ready at his office door, and 
was now in waiting, the horse tethered to a tree at the 
edge'of the wood not far away. 


36 


THE LAST STROKE 


This lap robe Robert Bricrly reverently drew away as 
lie knelt beside the still form, and thus, for some moments 
remained, turning his gaze from right to left, from the 
great tree which grew close at the motionless feet, and 
between the group and the water’s edge, its branches 
spreading out above them and forming a canopy over the 
body to a dead stump some distance away, where a small 
target leaned, its rings of white and black and red show- 
ing how often a steady hand had sent the ball, close and 
closer, until the bull’s eye was pierced at last. 

No word was uttered as he knelt there, and before he 
arose he placed a hand upon the dead man’s shoulder 
with an impulsive caressing motion, and bending down, 
kissed the cold temple just above the crimson death- 
mark. Then, slowly, reverently, he drew the covering 
once more over the body and arose. 

‘‘That was a vow,” he said to the doctor, who stood 
close beside him. “Where is — ah!” He turned toward 
the group of men who, when he knelt, had withdrawn to 
a respectful distance. 

“Which of you suggested that he had fallen — tripped?” 

Doran came forward and silently pointed to the foot of 
the tree, where, trailing across the grass, and past the 
dead man’s feet, was a tendril of wild ivy entangled and 
broken. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Brierly. “You saw that, too?” 

“It was the first thing I did see,’.’ said the other, com- 
ing to his side, “when I looked about me. It’s a very 
clear case, Mr. Brierly. Target-shooting has been quite 


THE LAST STROKE 


37 


a pastime here lately. And see! There couldn’t be a 
better place to stand and shoot at that target, than right 
against that tree, braced against it. It’s the right distance 
and all. He must have stood there, and when he hit the 
bull’s eye, he made a quick forward step, caught his foot 
in that vine and tripped. A man will naturally throw out 
his arm in falling so, especially the right one, and in 
doing that, somehow as he lunged forward, it happened.” 

“Yes,” murmured Brierly, “it is a very simple theory. 
It — it might have happened so.” 

“There wasn’t any other way it could happen,” mut- 
tered one of Doran’s companions. And at that moment 
the wheels of an approaching vehicle were heard, and all 
turned to look toward’the long black hearse, divested of 
its plumes, and with two or three thick blankets upon its 
velvet floor. 

It was the doctor who superintended the lifting of the 
body, keeping the head covered, and when the hearse 
drove slowly away with its pathetic burden, he turned to 
Doran. 

“I’ll drive Mr. Brierly back to town, Doran,” he said, 
“if you don’t mind taking his wheel in charge;” and 
scarcely waiting for Doran’s willing assent, he took Rich- 
ard Brierly’s arm and led him toward his phaeton. 

The young man had picked up his brother’s hat, as 
they lifted the body from the ground, and he now carried 
it in his hand, laying it gently upon his knees as he took 
his seat. 

When the doctor had taken his place and picked up the 


THE LAST STROKE 


reins he leaned out and looked about him. Two or three 
horsemen were riding into the wood toward them, and a 
carriage had halted at the side of the road, while a group 
of school boys, headed by Johnny, the bell ringer, were 
hurrying down the slope toward the water’s edge. 

“They’re beginning to gather,” the physician said 
grimly. “Well, it’s human nature, and your brother had 
a host of friends, Mr. Brierly.” 

Robert Brierly set his lips and averted his face for a 
moment. 

“Doran,” called the doctor. “Come here, will you.” 

Doran, who had begun to push the shining wheel up 
the slope, placed it carefully against a tree and came 
toward them. The doctor meanwhile turning to Brierly. 

“Mr. Brierly, you are a stranger here. Will you let 
me arrange for you?” 

The other nodded, and then said huskily: “But it 
hurts to take him to an undertaker’s!” 

“He shall not be taken there,” and the doctor turned to 
Doran now standing at the wheel. 

“Mr. Doran, will you take my keys and ride ahead as 
fast as possible? Tell the undertaker, as you pass, to 
drive to my house. Then go on and open it. We will 
put the body in the private office. Do not remonstrate, 
Mr. Brierly. It is only what I would wish another to do 
for me, and mine, in a like affliction.” And this was the 
rule by which this man lived his life, and because of 
which death had no terrors. 

“I am a bachelor, you must know,” the doctor said, as 


THE LAST STROKE 


39 


they drove slowly in the wake of the hearse. ^‘And I 
have made my home and established my office in a 
cosy cottage near the village proper. It will save you the 
ordeal of strange eyes, and many questions, perhaps, if 
you will be my guest, for a day or two, at least.” 

Robert Brierly turned and looked this friend in need 
full in the face for a moment; then he lifted his hand to 
brush a sudden moisture from his eye. 

“I accept all your kindness,” he said, huskily, ‘‘for I 
see that you are as sincere as you are kind.” 

When the body of Charles Brierly had been carried in, 
and placed as it must remain until the inquest was at an 
end, and when the crowd of sorrowing, anxious and curi- 
ous people had dispersed, the doctor, who was mas- 
terful at need, making Doran his lieutenant, arranged for 
the securing of a jury; and, after giving some quiet 
instructions, sent him away, saying: 

“Tell the people it is not yet determined how or when 
we shall hold the inquiry. Miss Grant, who must be a 
witness, will hardly be able to appear at once, I fear,” 
for, after looking to his guest’s bodily comfort, the doc- 
tor had left him to be alone with his grief for a little 
while, and had paid a flying visit to Hilda Grant, who 
lived nearly three blocks away. 

When at length the little house was quiet, and when 
the doctor and his heavy-hearted companions had made 
a pretense of partaking of luncheon, the former, having 
shut and locked the door upon the elderly African who 


40 


THE LAST STROKE 


served him, drew his chair close to that of his guest and 
said : 

^‘Are you willing to take counsel with me, Mr. Brierly? 
And are you quite fit and ready to talk about what is most 
important?” 

”I am most anxious for your advice, and for informa- 
tion.” 

‘‘Then, let us lose no time; there is much to be done.” 

“Doctor,” Robert Brierly bent toward the other and 
placed a hand upon his knee. “There are emergencies 
which bring men together and reveal them, each to each, 
in a flash, as it were. I cannot feel that you know me 
really, but I know you, and would trust you with my 
dearest possession, or my most dangerous secret. You 
will be frank with me, I know, if you speak at all; and I 
want you to tell me something.” 

“What is it?” 

“You have told me how, in your opinion, my poor 
brother really met his death. Will you put yourself in 
my place, and tell me how you would act in this horrible 
emergency? What is the first thing you would do?” 

The doctor’s answer came after a moment’s grave 
thought. 

“I am, I think, a Christian,” he said, gravely, “but I 
think — bah! I know that I would make my life’s work 
to find out the truth about that murder, for that it was 
a murder I solemnly believe.” 




CHAPTER IV. 

FERRARS. 

Robert Brierly caught his breath. 

‘‘And your reason,” he gasped, “for you have a reason 
other than the mere fact of the bullet-wound in the neck.” 

“I have seen just such deeds in the wild west and I 
know how they are done. But this is also professional 
knowledge. Besides, man, call reason to your aid! Oh, 
I expect too much. The hurt is too fresh, you can only 
feel now, but the man shot by accident, be it by his own 
hand or that of another, is not shot twice.” 

“Good heavens, no!” 

“But when one who creeps upon his victim, unawares, 
shoots him from behind, and, as he falls, fearing the work 
is not completed, shoots again, the victim, as you must 
see, receives the wound further to the front as the body 
falls forward and partially turns in falling. Do you see? 
Do you comprehend?” 

“Yes.” Brierly shuddered. 

“Brierly, this talk is hurting you cruelly. Let us drop 
details, or postpone them?” 

“Not the essential ones. I must bear what I must. 
Go on, doctor. I quite agree with you. It looks like a 

(41) 


42 


THE LAST STROKE 


murder, and we must — I must know the truth — must 
find the one who did the deed. Doctor, advise me.” 

‘^About— ” 

“How to begin, no time should be lost.” 

“That means a good detective, as soon as possible. 
Do you chance to know any of these gentry?” 

“I — . No, indeed! I suppose a telegram to the chief 
of police — ” 

“Allow me,” broke in Doctor Barnes. “May I make 
a suggestion?” 

“Anything. I seem unable to think.” 

“And, no wonder! I know the right man for you if 
he is in Chicago. You see, I was in hospital practice 
for several years, and have also had my share of prison 
experience. While thus employed I met a man named 
Ferrars, an Englishman, who for some years has spent 
the greater part of his time in this country, in Chicago, 
in fact. There’s a mystery and a romance attached to the 
man, or his history. He’s not connected with any of the 
city offices, but he is one of three retired detectives — 
retired, that is, from regular work — who work together 
at need when they feel a case to be worth their efforts. 
I think a case like this will be certain to attract Ferrars.” 

“And he is your choice of the three?” 

The doctor smiled. “The others are married,” he said, 
“and not so ready to go far afield as is Ferrars.” 

“You think him skillful?” 

“None better.” 

“Then, do you know his address?” 


THE LAST STROKE 


43 


Brierly got up and began to walk about, his eyes 
beginning to glow with the excitement so long sup- 
pressed. ‘‘Because we can’t get him here too soon.” 

“I agree with you. And now one thing more. To 
give him every advantage he should not be known, and 
the inquest should not begin until he is here.” 

“Can that be managed?” 

“I think so.” 

Brierly was now nervously eager. He seemed to have 
shaken off the stupor which at first had seemed to seize 
upon and hold him, and his questions and suggestions 
came thick and fast. It ended, of course, in his putting 
himself into the doctor’s hands, and accepting his plans 
and suggestions entirely. And very soon. Doctor 
Barnes, having given his factotum distinct instructions as 
regarded visitors, and inquiries, had set off, his medicine 
case carried ostentatiously in his hand, not for the tele- 
graph office, but for the cottage, close by, where Hilda 
Grant found a home. 

It was a small, neatly-kept cottage, and Mrs. Marcy, 
a gentle, kindly widow, and the young teacher were its 
only occupants. 

The widow met him at the door, her face anxious, her 
voice the merest whisper. 

“Doctor, tell me; do you think she will really be ill?” 

“Why no, Mrs. Marcy; at least not for long. It has 
been a shock, of course ; a great shock. But she — ” 

“Ah, doctor, she is heart-broken. I — I think I surely 
may tell you. It will help you to understand. They 


44 


THE LAST STROKE 


were engaged, and for a little while, such a pitiful little 
while it seems now, they have been so happy.” 

The doctor was silent a moment, his eyes turned away. 

“And now,” went on the good woman, “she will be 
lonelier than ever. You know she was very lonely here 
at first. She has no relatives nearer than a cousin any- 
where in the world, to her knowledge. And he has 
never been to see her. He lives in Chicago, too, not so 
far away.” 

“Yes, surely he ought to visit her now, really. Just 
ask her if I may come up, Mrs. Marcy. I — I’m glad 
you told me of this. Thank you. It will help me.” 

Ten minutes later Doctor Barnes was hastening 
toward the telegraph office, where he sent away this sin- 
gular and wordy message: 

■ “lYank Ferrars, No Street, Chicago — 

“Your cousin. Miss Hilda Grant, is ill, and in trouble. 
It is a case in which you are needed as much as I. 
Come, if possible, by first evening train, 

“WALTER BARNES.” 

“That will fetch him,” he mused, as he hastened home- 
ward. “Ferrars never breaks a promise, though I little 
expected to have to remind him of it within the year.” 

“Well,” began Brierly, when he entered his own door. 
“Have you seen her? Was she willing?” 

“Willing and anxious. She is a brave and sensible 


THE LAST STROKE 


45 


little woman. She will do her part, and she has never 
for one moment believed in the theory of an accident.’^ 

“And she will receive me?” 

“This evening. She insists that we hold oiir council 
there, in her presence. At first I objected, on account 
of her weakness, but she is right in her belief that we 
should be most secure there, and Ferrars should not be 
seen abroad to-night. We will have to take Mrs. Marcy 
into our confidence, in part at least, but she can be 
trusted. We will all be observed, more or less, for a 
few days. But, of course, I shall put Ferrars up for the 
night. That will be the thing to do after he has spent a 
short evening with his cousin.” 

Brierly once more began his restless pacing to and fro, 
turning presently to compare his watch with the doctor’s 
Dutch clock. 

“It will be the longest three hours I ever passed,” he 
said, and a great sigh broke from his lips. 

But, before the first hour had passed, a boy from the 
telegraph office handed in a blue envelope, and the doc- 
tor hastily broke the seal and read — 

“Be with you at 6:20. 

“FERRARS.” 

When the first suburban train for the evening halted, 
puffing, at the village station. Doctor Barnes waiting 
upon the platform, saw a man of medium height and 
square English build, step down from the smoking car 
and look indifferently about him. 


THE LAST STROKE 


i6 

There was the usual throng of gaping and curious vil- 
lagers, and some of them heard the stranger say, as he 
advanced toward the doctor, who waited with his small 
medicine case in his hand — 

^Tardon me; is this doctor — doctor Barnes?” And 
when the doctor nodded he asked quickly, “How is she?” 

“Still unnerved and weak. We have had a terrible 
shock, for all of us.” 

When the two men had left the crowd of curious 
loungers behind them the doctor said — 

“It is awfully good of you, Ferrars, to come so 
promptly at my call. Of course, I could not explain over 
the wires. But, you understand.” 

“I understand that you needed me, and as Fm good for 
very little, save in one capacity, I, of course, supposed 
there was a case for me. The evening paper, however, 
gave me — or so I fancy — a hint of the business. Is it 
the young schoolmaster?” 

The doctor started. It seemed impossible that the 
news had already found its way into print. 

“Someone has made haste,” he said, scornfully. 

“Someone always does in these cases, and the Journal 
has a ‘special correspondent’ in every town and village 
in the country almost. It was only a few lines.” He 
glanced askance at his companion as he spoke. ‘^And it 
was reported an accident or suicide.” 

“It was a murder!” 

“I thought so.” 

“You— why?” 


THE LAST STROKE 


47 


‘The victim was found,’ so says the paper, ‘face down- 
ward, or nearly so.’ ‘Fallen forward,’ those were the 
words. Was that the case?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, did you ever see or hear of a suicide who had 
fallen directly forward and face downward, supposing 
him to have shot himself?” 

“No, no.” 

“On the other hand, have you ever noted that a man 
taken unawares, shot from the side, or rear, falls for- 
ward? If shot standing, that is. It is only when he 
receives a face charge that he falls backward.” 

“I had not thought of that, and yet it looks simple and 
rational enough,” and then, while they walked down the 
quiet street running parallel with Main, and upon which 
Mrs. Marcy’s cottage stood, the doctor told the story of 
the morning, briefly but clearly, adding, at the end, “In 
telling this much, I am telling you actually all that I 
know.” 

“All — concerning Miss Grant, too?” 

“Everything.” 

The doctor did not lift his eyes from the path before 
them, and again the detective shot a side glance from the 
corner of his eye, and the shadow of a smile crossed his 
face. 

“How does it happen that this brother is here so — I 
was about to say — opportunely?” 

“He told me that he came by appointment, but on an 


48 


THE LAST STROKE 


earlier train than he had at first intended to take, to pass 
Sunday with his brother.” 

‘'Now see,” mused Ferrars, “what little things, done or 
left undone, shape or shorten our lives! If he had tele- 
graphed to his brother announcing his earlier arrival, 
there would have been no target practice, but a walk to 
the station instead.” 

The doctor sighed and for a few moments walked on 
in silence. Then, as they neared the cottage he almost 
stopped short and turned toward the detective. 

“I’m afraid you will think me a sad bungler, Ferrars. 
I should have told you at once that Robert Brierly awaits 
us at Mrs. Marcy’s cottage.” 

“Robert Brierly? Is that his name? I wonder if he 
can be the Robert Brierly who has helped to make one 
of our morning papers so bright and breezy. A rising 
young journalist, in fact. But it’s probably another of 
the name.” 

“ I don’t know. He has not spoken of himself. Will 
it suit you to meet him at once?” 

“We don’t often get the chance to begin as would best 
suit us, we hunters of our kind. I would have preferred 
to go first to the scene of the death, but I suppose the 
ground has been trampled over and over, and, besides, I 
don’t want to advertise myself until I am better informed 
at least. Go on, we will let our meeting come as it will.” 

But things seldom went on as they would for long, 
when Frank Ferrars was seeking his way toward a truth 
or fact. They found Mrs. Marcy at the door, and she 


THE LAST STROKE 


49 


at once led them to the upper room which looked out 
upon the side and rear of the little lawn, and was 
screened from inlookers, as well as from the sun’s rays, 
by tall cherry trees at thd side, and thick and clinging 
morning glory vines at the back. 

“You’ll be quite safe from intrusion here,” she mur- 
mured and left them, as she had received them at the 
door. 

If Doctor Barnes had feared for his patient’s strength, 
and dreaded the effect upon her of the coming interview, 
he was soon convinced that he had misjudged the cour- 
age and will power of this slight, soft-eyed, low- 
voiced and unassertive young woman. She was very 
pale, and her eyes looked out from their dark circles like 
wells of grief. But no tears fell from them, and the low 
pathetic voice did not falter when she said, after the 
formal presentation, and before either of the others had 
spoken. 

‘T have asked to be present at this interview, Mr. Far- 
rars, and am told that it rests with you whether I am 
admitted to your confidences. Charles Brierly is my 
betrothed, and I would to God I had yielded to his wish 
and married him a week ago. Then no one could have 
shut me out from ought that concerns him, living or 
dead. In the sight of heaven he is my husband, for we 
promised each other eternal faithfulness with our hands 
clasped above his mother’s Bible.” 

Francis Ferrars was a singular mixture of sternness 
and gentleness, of quick decision at need and of patient 


50 


THE LAST STROKE 


considerateness, and he now took one of the cold little 
hands between his own, and gently but firmly led her to 
the cosy chair from which she had arisen. 

“You have proven your right to be here, and no one 
will dispute it. We may need your active help soon, as 
much as we need and desire your counsel and your closer 
knowledge of the dead man now.” 

In moments of intense feeling conventionalities fall 
away from us and strong soul speaks to strong soul. 
While they awaited the coming of the doctor and Francis 
Ferrars, Hilda Grant and Robert Brierly had been unable 
to break through the constraint which seemed to each to 
be the mental attitude of the other, and then, too, both 
were engrossed with the same thought, the coming of the 
detective, and the possibilities this suggested, for under- 
lying the grievous sorrow of both brother and sweetheart 
lay the thought, the silent appeal for justice as inherent 
in our poor human nature as is humanity itself. 

But Hilda’s sudden claim, her prayer for recognition 
struck down the barrier of strangeness and the selfish- 
ness of sorrow, than which sometimes nothing can be 
more exclusive, in the mind and heart of Robert Brierly, 
and he came swiftly to her side, as she sank back, pallid 
and panting, upon her cushions. 

“Miss Grant, my sister; no other claim is so strong as 
yours. It was to meet you, to know you, that I set out 
for this place to-day. In my poor brother’s last letter — 
you shall read it soon — he said, ‘I am going to give you 
something precious, Rob ; a sister. It is to meet her that 


THE LAST STROKE 


51 


I have asked you to come just now/ I claim that sister, 
and need her now if never before. Don’t look upon me 
as a stranger, but as Charlie’s brother, and yours.” He 
placed his hand over hers as it rested weakly upon the 
arm of her chair, and as it turned and the chill little 
fingers closed upon his own, he held it for a moment and 
then, releasing it gently, drew a seat beside her and 
turned toward the detective. 

“Mr. Ferrars, your friend has assured me that I may 
hope for your aid. Is that so?” 

“When I have heard all that you can tell me, I will 
answer,” replied Ferrars. “If I see a hope or chance of 
unravelling what now looks like a mystery — should it be 
proved a mystery — I will give you my promise, and my 
services.” 

He had seated himself almost opposite Hilda Grant, 
and while he quietly studied her face, he addressed the 
doctor. 

“Tell me,” he said, “all you know and have been told 
by others, and be sure you omit not the least detail.” 

Beginning with the appearance of Mr. Doran at his 
office door, with the panting and perspiring black pony, 
the doctor detailed their drive and his first sight of the 
victim, reviewing his examination of the body in detail, 
while the detective listened attentively and somewhat to 
the surprise of the others, without interruption, until the 
narrator had reached the point when, accompanied by 
Brierly, he had followed the hearse, with its pitiful 
burden, back to the village. Then Ferrars interposed. 


52 


THE LAST STROKE 


“A moment, please,” taking from an inner pocket a 
broad, flat letter case and selecting from it a printed card, 
which, with a pencil, he held out to the doctor. 

“Be so good,” he said, “as to sketch upon the blank 
back of this, the spot where you found the dead man, the 
mound in full, with the road indicated, above and beyond 
it. I remember you used to be skillful at sketching 
things.” 


CHAPTER V. 


IN consultation. 

When the doctor had completed his hasty sketch, he 
returned the card upon which it was made, to the detec- 
tive and silently awaited his comment. 

“It is very helpful,'*’ said Ferrars. “It would seem, 
then, that just opposite the mound the lake makes an 
inward curve?” 

“Yes.” 

“And that the center of the mound corresponds to the 
central or nearest point of the curve?” 

The doctor nodded assent. 

“Now am I right in thinking that anything occurring 
at this central point would be unseen from the road?” 

“Quite right. The mound rises higher than the road, 
and its length shuts off the view at either end, that and 
the line of the road, which curves away from the lake at 
the north end, and runs in an almost straight direction 
for some distance at the other.” 

“I see.” And again for a moment Ferrars consulted 
the sketch. “Then — ” 

“Did you measure the distance between the target and 
the spot where the body was found?” 

( 53 ) 


54 


THE LAST STROKE 


“No. It was the usual distance for practice, I should 
think.” 

“It v/as rather a long range,” interposed Brierly. “I 
am something of a shot myself and I noticed that.” 

Again the detective pondered over the sketch. 

“By this time I dare say,” he said presently, “there 
will be any number of curious people in the wood and 
about that spot.” 

“I doubt it,” replied Doctor Barnes. “I thought of 
that, and spoke to Doran. Mr. Brierly was so well liked 
by all that it only needed a word to keep the men and 
boys from doing anything that might hinder a thorough 
investigation. Two men are upon the road just below 
the school house to turn back the thoughtless curious 
ones. It was Doran’s foresight,” added the honest phy- 
sician. “I suppose you will wish to explore the wood 
near the mound.” 

Ferrars laid aside the sketch. “As the coroner,” he 
said, “you can help me. Of course, you can have no 
doubt as to the nature of the shooting. There could be 
no mistake.” 

“None. The shot at the back could not have been 
self-inflicted.” 

“Then if you can rely upon your constables and this 
man Doran, let them make a quiet inquiry up and down 
the wood road in search of any one who may have driven 
over it between the hours of — ” 

“Eight and ten o’clock,” said Hilda Grant. “He,” 
meaning her late friend, “left his boarding place at eight 


THE LAST STROKE 


55 


o’clock, or near it, and he was found shortly before ten.” 

Her speech was low and hesitating, but it did not 
falter. 

‘‘Thank you,” said the detective, and turned again to 
the doctor. 

“Next,” said he, “if you can find a trusty man, who 
will find out for us if any boat or boats have been seen 
about the lake shore during those hours, it will be 
another step in the right direction. And now, you have 
told me that you suspect no one; that there is no clue 
whatever.” He glanced from one to the other. “Still 
we are told that very often by those who should know 
best, but who were not trained to such searching. To 
begin, I must know something, Mr. Brierly, about your 
brother and his past. Is he your only brother?” 

“Yes. We lost a sister ten years ago, a mere child. 
There were no other children.” 

“And — your parents?” 

“Are both dead.” 

“Ah! Mr. Brierly, give me, if you please, a sketch of 
your life and of your brother’s, dating, let us say, from 
the time of your father’s death.” 

If the request was unexpected or unwelcome to Robert 
Brierly he made no sign, but began at once. 

“If I do not go into details sufficiently, Mr. Ferrars,” 
he said, by way of preamble, “you will, of course, interro- 
gate me.” 

The detective nodded, and Brierly went on. 

“My father was an Episcopalian clergyman, and, at the 


56 


THE LAST STROKE 


time of his death, we were living in one of the wealthy 
suburbs of Chicago, where he had held a charge for ten 
years, and where we remained for six years after he gave 
up the pulpit. Being in comfortable circumstances, we 
found it a most pleasant place of residence. My sister’s 
death brought us our first sorrow, and it was soon fol- 
lowed by the loss of our mother. We continued to live, how- 
ever, in the old home until my brother and I were ready 
to go to college, and then my father shut up the house 
and went abroad with a party of congenial friends. My 
father was not a business man, and the man to whom he 
had confided the management of his affairs misarranged 
them during his absence, to what extent we never fully 
knew until after my father’s death, when we found our- 
selves, after all was settled, with something like fifteen 
thousand dollars each, and our educations. My brother 
had already begun to prepare for the ministry, and I had 
decided early to follow the career of a journalist.” 

“Are you the elder?” asked the detective. 

“Yes.” Brierly paused for further comment, but none 
came, and he resumed. “It had been the intention of 
my father that my brother and I should make the tour of 
the two continents when our studies were at an end ; that 
is, our school days. He had made this same journey, 
in his youth, and he had even mapped out routes for us, 
and told us of certain strange and little explored places 
which we must not miss, such as the rock temples of 
Kylas in Central India, and various wonders of Egypt. 
It was a favorite project of his. ‘It will leave you less 


THE LAST STROKE 


57 


money, boys,’ he used to say, ‘but it will give what can 
never be taken from you. When a man knows his own 
world, he is better fitted for the next.’ And so, after 
much discussion, we determined to make the journey. 
Indeed, to Charley it began to seem a pilgrimage, in 
which love, duty and pleasure intermingled.” 

He paused, and Hilda turned away her face as a long 
sighing breath escaped his lips. 

“Shortly after our return I took up journalistic work 
in serious earnest, and my brother, having been ordained, 
was about to accept a charge when he met with an acci- 
dent which was followed by a long illness. When he 
arose from this, his physicians would not hear of his 
assuming the labors of a pastor over a large and active 
suburban church, and, as my brother could not bear to be 
altogether idle, and the country was thought to be the 
place for him, it ended in his coming here, to take charge 
of the little school. He was inordinately fond of chil- 
dren, and a born instructor, so it seemed to me. He was 
pleased with the beauty of the place and the quiet of it, 
from the first, and he was not long in finding his greatest 
happiness here.” 

His voice sank, and he turned a face in which gratitude 
and sorrow blended, upon the girl who suddenly covered 
her own with her trembling hands. 

But the detective, with a new look of intentness upon 
his face, and without a moment’s pause, asked quickly. 

“Then you have been in this place before, of course?” 

“No, I have not. For the first three months Charley 


58 


THE LAST STROKE 


was very willing’ to come to me, in the city. Then came 
a very busy time for me and he came twice, somewhat 
reluctantly, I thought. Six months ago I was sent to 
New Mexico to do some special work, and returned to 
the city on Tuesday last.” His voice broke, and he got 
up and walked to the window farthest from the group. 

While he had been speaking, Ferrars had scribbled 
aimlessly and a stroke at a time, as it seemed, upon the 
margin of the printed side of the card which bore the 
sketch made by Doctor Barnes; and now, while Hilda’s 
face was again turned away, and the young man at the 
window still stood with his back toward all in the room, 
he pushed the card from the edge of the table, and shot 
a significant glance toward the doctor. 

Picking up the card. Doctor Barnes glanced at it care- 
lessly, and then replaced it upon the table, having read 
these words — 

‘T wish to speak with her alone. Make it a profes- 
sional necessity.” 

As Brierly turned toward them once more the detec- 
tive turned to the young girl. ‘T would like to hear 
something from you. Miss Grant, if you find yourself 
equal to it.’ 

Hilda set her lips in firm lines, and after a moment said 
steadily — 

‘T am quite at your service.” 

“One minute.” The doctor arose and addressed him- 
self to the detective. 

“I feel sure that it will be best for Miss Grant that she 


THE LAST STROKE 


59 


talk with you alone. As her physician, I will caution 
her against putting too great a restraint upon herself, 
upon her feelings. While you talk with her, Ferrars, Mr. 
Brierly and I will go back to my cpiarters, unless you bid 
us come back.” 

‘T do not,” interposed the detective. ‘T will join you 
soon, and if need be, you can then return, doctor.” 

At first it seemed as if Hilda were about to remon- 
strate. But she caught the look of intelligence that 
flashed from his eyes to hers, and she sat in silence while 
Doctor Barnes explained the route to his cottage, and 
murmured a low good-bye while Brierly took her hand 
and bent over her with a kind adieu. 

“ I may see you to-morrow,” he whispered. “You 
will let me come, sister?” The last word breathed close 
to her ear. 

Her lips moved soundlessly, but he read her eager con- 
sent in her timid return of his hand clasp and the look in 
her sad, gray eyes and followed the doctor from the 
room. 

When Frank Ferrars had closed the door behind the 
two men, he wasted no time in useless words, but, seating 
himself opposite the girl, and so close that he could 
catch, if need be, her faintest whisper, he began, his 
own tones low and touched with sympathy — 

“Miss Grant,” he said, “I already feel assured that you 
know how many things must be considered before we 
can ever begin such a search as I forsee before me. Of 
course it may happen that before the end of the coron- 


60 


THE LAST STROKE 


er’s inquest some clue or key to the situation may have 
developed. But, if I have heard all, or, rather, if there 
has not been some important fact or feature overlooked, 
we must go behind the scenes for our data, our hints and 
possible clues. Do you comprehend me?” 

Hilda Grant had drawn herself erect, and was listening 
intently with her clear eyes fixed upon his face, and she 
seemed with her whole soul to be studying this man, 
while, with her ears she took in and comprehended his 
every^ word. 

“You mean,” she answered slowly, “that there may 
be something in himself or some event or fact in his past, 
or that of his family, which has brought about this?” 
She turned away her face. She could not put the awful 
fact into words. 

“I knew you would understand me, and it is not to his 
past alone that I must look for help, but to others.” 

“Do you mean mine?” 

“Yes. You do understand!” 

There was a look of relief in his eyes. His lips took on 
a gentler curve. “I see that you are going to help me.” 

“If it is in my power, I surely am. Where shall we 
begin?” 

“Tell me all that you can about Charles Brierly, all that 
he has told you about himself. Will it be too hard?” 

“No matter.” She drew herself more erect. “I think 
if you will let me tell my own story briefly, and then fill 
it out at need, by interrogation, it will be easiest for me.” 


THE LAST STROKE 


61 


^‘And best for me. Thank yon.” He leaned back and 
rested his hands upon the arms of his chair. 

“I am ready to hear you,” he said, and withdrew his 
full gaze from her face, letting his eyelids fall and sitting 
thus with half-closed eyes. 

“Of course,” she began, “it was only natural, or so it 
appeared to me, that we should become friends soon, meet- 
ing, as we must, daily, and being so constantly brought 
together, as upper and under teachers in this little village 
school. He never seemed really strange to me, and we 
seemed thrown upon each other for society, for the young 
people of the village held aloof, because of our new- 
ness, and our position, I suppose, and the people of the 
hotels and boarding houses found, naturally, a set, or 
sets, by themselves. I grew up in what you might call 
a religious atmosphere, and when I knew that he was a 
minister of the gospel, I felt at once full confidence in 
him and met his friendly advances quite frankly. I think 
we understood each other very soon. You perhaps have 
not been told that he filled a vacancy, taking the place 
of a young man who was called away because of his 
mother’s illness, and who did not return, giving up the 
school at her request. It was in April, a year ago, that 
he — Charlie — took up the work, coming back, as I did, 
after the summer vacation. It was after that that he 
began telling me about himself a little; to speak often of 
his brother, who was, to his eyes, a model of young man- 
hood and greatly his intellectual superior.” 


62 


THE LAST STROKE 


She paused a moment, and then with a little proud lift- 
ing of her rounded chin, resumed. 

“I was not quite willing to agree as to the superiority; 
for Charles Brierly was as bright, as talented and prom- 
ising a young man, as good and as modest as any I ever 
knew or hope to know, and I have met some who rank 
high as pastors and orators.” 

‘T can well believe you,” he said with his eyes upon 
her face, and his voice was sincere and full of sympathy. 

'‘We were not engaged until quite recently. Although 
we both, I think, understood ourselves and each other 
long before. And now, what more can I say? He has 
told me much of his school days, of his student life, and, 
of course, of his brother’s also. In fact, without mean- 
ing it, he has taught me to stand somewhat in awe of 
this highly fastidious, faultless and much-beloved 
brother, but I have heard of no family quarrel, no enemy, 
no unpleasant episode of any sort. For himself, he 
told me, and I believe his lightest word, that he never 
cared for any other woman; had never been much in 
women’s society, in fact, owing to his almost constant 
study and travel. Here in the village all were his friends; 
his pupils were all his adorers, young and old alike were 
his admirers, and he had room in his heart for all. No 
hand in Glenville was ever raised against him, I am sure.” 

"You think then that it was perhaps an accident, a 
mistake?” He was eyeing her keenly trom beneath his 
drooping lashes. 

"No!” She sprang suddenly to her feet and stood 


THE LAST STROKE 


63 


erect before him. “No, Mr. Ferrars, I do not! I can- 
not. I was never in my life superstitious. I do not 
believe it is superstition that compels me to feel that 
Charles Brierly was murdered of intent, and by an 
enemy, an enemy who has stalked him unawares, for 
money perhaps, and who has planned cunningly, and hid 
his traces well/’ 


CHAPTER VI. 


“WHICH ?’» 

“Give me a few moments of your time, doctor, after 
your guest has retired for the night.” 

For more than two hours after his parting with Hilda 
Grant, Ferrars had talked, first with Robert Brierly alone, 
and then with the doctor as a third party. At the end, 
the three had gone together to look upon the face of the 
dead, and now, as the doctor nodded over his shoulders 
and silently followed, or, rather, guided Brierly from the 
room and toward his sleeping apartment, the detective 
turned back, and when they were out of hearing, removed 
the covering from the still face, and taking a lamp from 
the table near, stood looking down upon the dead. 

“No,” he murmured at last, as he replaced the lamp 
and turned back to the side of the bier. “You never 
earned such a fate. You must have lived and died a 
good man; an honest man, and yet — ” He turned 
quickly at the sound of the opening door. “Doctor, 
come here and tell me how your keen eyes and worldly 
intelligence weighed, measured and gauged this man 
who lies here with that look, that inscrutable look they 
all wear once they have seen the mystery unveiled, 
What manner of man did you find him?” 

(64) 


65 




THE LAST STROKE 

Doctor Barnes came closer and gazed reverently 
down upon the dead face. 

‘There lies a man who could better afford to face the 
mystery suddenly, without warning, than you or I or 
any other living man I know. A good man, a true 
Christian gentleman. I honestly believe, too modest per- 
haps to ever claim and hold his true place in this grasp- 
ing world. That he should be struck down by the hand 
of an assassin is past belief, and yet — ” He paused 
abruptly and bent down to replace the covering over the 
still, handsome face. 

“And yet,” repeated the detective, “do you really think 
that this man was murdered?” 

“Ferrars!” Both men were moving away from the 
side of the bier, one on either hand, and, as they came 
together at its foot, the speaker put a hand upon the 
shoulder of the detective. “To-morrow I hope you will 
thoroughly overlook the wood road beyond the school 
house, the lake shore, from the village to the knoll or 
mound; and the thin strip of wood between, and then 
tell me if you think it possible for any one, however 
stupid or erratic of aims to shoot by accident a man stand- 
ing in that place. There is no spot from which a bullet 
could have been fired whence a man could not have 
been seen perfectly, that figure by the lake side. The 
trees are so scattered, the bushes so low, the view up and 
down so open. It’s impossible!” 

“That is your fixed opinion?” 


66 


THE LAST STROKE 


^Tt is. Nothing but actual proof to the contrary 
would change it.” 

When they had passed from the room and the doctor 
had softly closed the door, leaving the dead alone in the 
silence and the shaded lamp-light, they paused again, 
face to face, in the outer office. 

“Have you any suggestions as regards the inquest, 
Ferrars?” asked the one. 

“I have been thinking about that foolish lad, the one 
who saw poor Brierly in the wood. Could you get him 
here before the inquiry? We might be able to learn 
more in this way. You know the lad, of course?” 

“Of course. There will be very little to be got from 
him. But ril have him here for you.” 

. “Do so. And the lady, the one who drove the pony; 
you will call her, I suppose?” 

“Certainly.” 

“That is all, I think. If you can drive me to the spot 
very early, before we breakfast even, I would like it. 
You need not stop for me. I can find my way back, 
prefer to, in fact. You say it is not far?” 

“Little more than half a mile from the school house.” 

“Then — good night, doctor.” 

Doctor Barnes occupied a six-room cottage with a 
mansard, and he had fitted up the room originally meant 
to be a sitting room, for his own sleeping apartment. It 
was at the front of the main cottage and back of it was 
the inner office where the body lay, the outer office being 
in a wing built out from this rear room and opening con- 


THE LAST STROKE 


67 


veniently outward, in view of the front entrance and very 
close to a little side gate. A porch fitted snugly into the 
angle made by the former sitting room and this outer 
office, and both of these rooms could be entered from this 
convenient porch. Robert Brierly occupied the room 
opposite that assigned the detective with the width of the 
hall between them and the doctor, although Ferrars did 
not know this, had camped down in his outer office. 

Half an hour after he had parted from the doctor, 
Frank Ferrars, as he was called by his nearest and most 
familiar friends, opened the door upon the corner porch 
and stepped noiselessly out. When he believed that he 
had found an unusual case — and he cared for no others — 
he seldom slept until he had thought out some plan of 
work, adopted some theory, or evolved a possibility, 
or, as he whimsically termed it, a ‘‘stepping stone” 
toward clearer knowledge. 

He had answered the doctor’s summons with little 
thought of what it might mean, or lead to, and simply 
because it was from “Walt.” Barnes. Then he had 
heard the doctor’s brief story, with some surprise and an 
inclination to think it might end, after all, in a case of 
accidental shooting, or self-inflicted death. But when 
he looked into the woeful eyes of lovely Hilda Grant, and 
clasped the hand of the dead man’s brother, the case took 
on a new interest. Here was no commonplace village 
maiden hysterical and forlorn, no youth breathing out 
dramatic vows of vengeance upon an unknown foe. At 
once his heart went out to them, his sympathy was theirs, 


68 


THE LAST STROKE 


and the sympathy of Francis Ferrars was of a very select 
nature indeed. 

And thus he had looked at the beautiful refined face of 
the dead man, a face that told of gentleness, sweetness, 
loyalty, all manifest in the calm dignity of death. Not 
a strong face, as his brother’s face was strong, but manly 
with the true Christian manliness, and strong with the 
strength of truth. Looking upon this face, all thought 
of self-destruction forsook the detective, and he stood, 
after that first long gaze, vowed to right this deadly 
wrong in the only way left to a mortal. 

But how strange that such a man, in such a place, 
should be snatched out of life by the hand of an assassin ! 
He must think over it, and he could think best when 
passing slowly along some quiet by-way or street. So 
he closed his door softly, and all unconscious that he was 
observed from the window of the outer office, he vaulted 
across the low fence, striking noiselessly upon the soft 
turf on the further side; and, after a moment of hesita- 
tion, turned the corner and went down Main street. 

Past the shops, the fine new church, the two hotels, 
one new and one old. Past the little park and around it 
to the street, terraced and tree planted, where the more 
pretentious dwellings and several modish new houses, 
built for the summer boarder, stood. It was a balmy 
niglit. Every star seemed out, and there was a moon, 
bright, but on the wane. 

Ferrars walked slowly upon the soft turf, avoiding the 
boards and stones of the walks and street crossings. 


THE LAST STROKE 


Now and then he paused to look at some fair garden, 
lovely in the moonlight, or up at the stars, and once, at 
least, at a window, open to the breezes of night and 
revealing that which sent Ferrars homeward presently 
with a question on his lips. He paced the length of the 
terraced street, and passed by the cottage where Hilda 
Grant waked and wept perchance, and as he re-entered 
his room silently and shadow-like, he said to himself — 

“Is it fate or Providence that prompts us to these rea- 
sonless acts? I may be wrong, I may be mistaken, but 
I could almost believe that I have found my first clue.” 

And yet he had heard nothing, and yet all he had seen 
was a woman’s shadow, reflected fitfully by the waning 
moon, as she paced her room to and fro, to and fro, like 
some restless or tormented animal, and now and then 
lifted her arms aloft in despair? in malediction? in tri- 
umph? in entreaty? — which? 

In spite of his brief rest, if rest it was, Ferrars was 
astir before sunrise; but, even so, he found the doctor 
awake before him, and his horse in waiting at the side 
gate. 

They drove swiftly and were soon within sight of the 
Indian Mound. 

“Show me first the place where the body was found,” 
Ferrars had said to his guide as they set out, and when 
the two stood at this spot, which someone had marked 
with two small stakes, and the doctor had answered some 
brief questions regarding the road through the fringe of 
wood, the mound, and the formation of the lake shore 


70 


THE LAST STROKE 


further south or away from the town, the detective 
announced his wish to be left alone to pursue his work 
in his own way. 

*^Your guest will be astir early if I am not much mis- 
taken,” he said. “And you have Miss Grant to look after 
and may be wanted for a dozen reasons before I return. 
I can easily walk back, and think you will see me at the 
breakfast hour which you must on no account delay.” 

Two hours later and just as the doctor’s man had 
announced breakfast the detective returned and at once 
joined the two in the dining room. 

He said nothing of his morning excursion, but the 
doctor’s quick eye noted his look of gravity, arid a cer- 
tain preoccupation of manner which Ferrars did not 
attempt to hide. Before the meal was ended, doctor 
Barnes was convinced that something was puzzling the 
detective, and troubling him not a little. 

After breakfast, and while Brierly was for the moment 
absent from the porch where they had seated themselves 
with their cigars, Ferrars asked — , 

“Where does the lady live who drove Mr. Doran’s 
black pony yesterday? Is it at an hotel?” 

“It is at the Glenville, an aristocratic family hotel on 
the terrace. She is a Mrs. Jamieson.” 

“Do you know her?” 

“She sent for me once to prescribe for some small ail- 
ment not long ago.” 

“Has she been summoned?” 

^‘She will be.” 


THE LAST STROKE 


71 


‘Tf there was anyone in the woods, or approaching the 
mound by the road, from the south, she should have seen 
them, or him; even a boat might have been seen through 
the trees for some distance southward, could it not?” 

'‘Yes. For two miles from the town, the lake is visible 
from the wood road. Ah! here comes Doran and our 
constable.” 

For half an hour the doctor was busy with Doran, the 
constable and a number of other men who had or wished 
to have some small part to play in this second act of the 
tragedy, the end of which no one could foresee. Then, hav- 
ing dispatched them on their various missions, the doctor 
set out to inquire after the welfare of Hilda Grant; and 
Robert Brierly, who could not endure his suspense and 
sorrow in complete inaction, asked permission to accom- 
pany him, thus leaving the detective, who was quite in 
the mood for a little solitude just then, in possession of 
the porch, three wicker chairs and his cigar. 

But not for long. Before he had smoked and wrinkled 
his brows, as was his habit when things were not develop- 
ing to his liking, and pondered ten minutes alone, he 
heard the click of the front gate, and turned in his chair 
to see a lady, petite, graceful and dressed in mourning, 
coming toward him with quick, light steps. She was 
looking straight at him, as she came, but as he rose at 
her approach, she stopped short, and standing a few steps 
from the porch said crisply — 

“Your pardon. I have made a mistake. I am look- 
ing for doctor Barnes.” 


n 


THE LAST STROKE 


“He has gone out for a short time only. Will you be 
seated, madam, and wait?” 

She advanced a step and stopped irresolute. 

“I suppose I must, unless,” coming close to the lower 
step, “unless you can tell me, sir, what I wish to know.” 

“If it is a question of medicine; madam, I fear — ” 

“It is not,” she broke in, her voice dropping to a lower 
note. “It is about the — the inquiry or examination into 
the death of the poor young man who — but you know, of 
course.” 

“I have heard. The inquest is held at one o’clock.” 

“Ah! And do you know if the — the witnesses have 
been notified as yet?” 

“They are being summoned now. As the doctor’s 
guest I have but lately heard him sending out the 
papers.” 

“Oh, indeed!” The lady put a tiny foot upon the step 
as if to mount, and then withdrew it. “I think, if I may 
leave a message with you, sir,” she said, “I will not wait.” 

“Most certainly,” he replied. 

“I chanced to be driving through the wood yesterday 
when the body was discovered near the Indian Mound, 
and am told that I shall be wanted as a witness. I do 
not undferstand why.” 

“Possibly a mere form which is nevertheless essential.” 

“I had engaged to go out with a yachting party,” she 
went on, “and before I withdraw from the excursion I 
wish to be sure that I shall really be required. My name 
is Mrs. Jamieson, and — ” 


THE LAST STROKE 


73 


“Then I can assure yon, Mrs. Jamieson, that you are, 
or will be wanted, at least. My friend has sent a sum- 
mons to a Mrs. Jamieson of the Glenville House.” 

“That is myself,” the lady said, and turned to go. “Of 
course then I must be at hand.” 

She nodded slightly and went away, going with a less 
appearance of haste down the street and so from his 
sight. 

When she was no longer visible the detective resumed 
his seat, and relighted his cigar, making, as he did so, this 
very unprofessional comment — 

“I hate to lose sight of a pretty woman, until I am sure 
of the color of her eyes.” 

And yet Francis Ferrars had never been called in any 
sense, a “ladies’ man.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


RENUNCIATION. 

Ferrars had predicted that nothing would be gained by 
the inquest, and the result proved him a prophet. 

Peter Kramer, the poor half-wit who had given the 
first clue to the whereabouts of the murdered man, was 
found and his confidence won by much coaxing, and 
more sweets and shining pennies, the only coin which 
Peter would ever recognize as such. But the result was 
small. Asked had he seen the teacher, the reply was, 
“Yep.” Asked where, “Most by Injun hill.” Asked 
what doing, “Settin’ down.” 

“Had he heard the pistol fired,” asked the doctor. 

“Un! Uh! Heard nawthin.” 

“And whom did you see, Peter, besides the teacher?” 

Again the look of affright in the dull eyes, the arm 
lifted as in self-protection, and the only word they could 
coax from his lips was, “Ghost!” uttered in evident fear 
and trembling. 

And this was repeated at the inquest. This, and no 
more, from Peter. 

Mrs. Fry, Charles Brierly’s landlady, told how the dead 
man had appeared at breakfast, and her testimony did not 
accord with the statement of her little daughter. 

( 74 ) 


THE LAST STROKE 


75 


“Miss Grant has told me of my little girl’s mistake,” 
she said. “Mr. Brierly was down-stairs unusually early 
that morning, and he did not look quite as well as usual. 
He looked worried, in fact, and ate little. He was always 
a small eater, and I said something about his eating even 
less than usual, I can’t recall the exact words. Nellie, of 
course, did not observe his worried look, as I did, and 
quoted me wrong. Mr. Brierly left the house at once 
after leaving the table. I did not think of it at first, but 
it came to me this morning that as he did not carry any 
books with him, he must of course have meant to come 
back for them, and — ” She paused. 

“And, of course,” suggested the coroner, “he must 
have had his pistol upon his person when he came down 
to breakfast? Is that your meaning?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The weapon, found near the dead man’s hand as it had 
doubtless fallen from it, was there in evidence, as it had 
been picked up with two of the chambers empty. 

That it was not a case of murder for plunder was 
proven, or so they thought, by the fact that the dead 
man’s watch was found upon his person; his pockets, 
containing a small sum of money, pencils, knives, note 
book, a small picture case, closed with a spring, and con- 
taining Hilda Grant’s picture, and a letter from his 
brother. 

Hilda Grant’s brief testimony did not agree with that 
of Mrs. Fry. 

She saw her lover, alive, for tlie last time on the even- 


76 


THE LAST STROKE 


ing before his death. “He was in good spirits and if there 
was anything troubling him he gave no sign of it. He 
was by nature quiet and rather reserved,” she said. 

Yes, she knew his habit of sometimes' going to the lake 
shore beyond the town to practice at target-shooting, but 
when he did not appear at his post at nine o’clock she 
never thought to send to the lake shore at first, because 
he usually returned from his morning exercise before 
nine o’clock; and so her first thought had been to send 
to Mrs. Fry’s. 

When the doctor and Robert were about to leave the 
scene of the murder, among other instructions given to 
Doran had been this: 

“Don’t say anything in town about Mr. Brierly’s 
arrival; you know how curious our people are, and we 
would have a lot of our curiosity lovers hovering around 
my place to see and hear and ask questions. Just cau- 
tion the others, will you?” 

Doran held an acknowledged leadership over the men 
with whom he consorted, and the group willingly pre- 
served silence. Later, when doctor Barnes explained to 
Ferrars how he had kept the curious away from his door, 
and from Brierly, he thought the detective’s gratification 
because of this, rather strange, just at first, arid in excess 
of the cause. 

“You couldn’t have done a better thing,” Ferrars had 
^leclared. “It’s more than I had ventured to hope. Keep 
Brierly’s identity as close as possible until the inquest 


THE LAST STROKE 


77 


is called, and then hold it back, and do not put him on the 
stand until the last.” 

After Mrs. Fry, the boy Peter and Hilda Grant had 
been questioned, Samuel Doran took the witness chair, 
telling of his summons from Miss Grant, of the separa- 
tion of the group at the Indian Mound, of his meeting 
with Mrs. Jamieson, of the discovery made by his two 
companions and of all that followed. And then Mrs. 
Jamieson was called. 

She had entered the place accompanied by an acquaint- 
ance from the Glenville and they had taken, from choice, 
as it seemed to them, seats in the rear of the jury, and 
somewhat aloof from the place where Hilda Grant, Mrs. 
Marcy, and Mrs. Fry sat. Robert Brierly would have 
taken his place beside Hilda, but the detective interposed. 

‘‘Owing to the precautions of the doctor and Mr. 
Doran, the fact of your relationship has not leaked out. 
It appears that Mrs. Fry was not informed of your com- 
ing until the evening before, or Thursday evening, and 
she seems to be a very discreet woman. After the inquest 
you will be free to devote yourself to Miss Grant. Until 
then, it is my whim, if you like, to keep you incog.” 

Of course Brierly acquiesced, but more than once he 
found himself wondering why this should seem to Ferrars 
needful. 

Mrs. Jamieson came quietly to the witnesses’ chair, and 
took her place. There was a little stir as she came for- 
ward, for, while she had been for some weeks in Glen- 
ville, and had driven much about its pretty country roads 


78 


THE LAST STROKE 


and lanes, she had gone, for the most part, more or less 
closely veiled in fleecy gauzes of black or white. Afoot 
she was seldom seen beyond the grounds about the fam- 
ily hotel. 

To-day, however, the lady had chosen to wear a Paris- 
ian looking gown of dull black silk and a tiny capote of 
the same material rested upon her blonde and abundant 
hair, while only the filmiest of white illusion veiled, but 
did not hide, the pretty face from which the blue eyes 
looked out and about her, gravely but with perfect self- 
possession. 

She told of her morning drive, and while so doing, 
Ferrars, sitting a little in the rear of the coroner, slipped 
into his palm a small card closely written upon both sides. 
Upon one side was written, “Use these as random shots.” 

And when she spoke of the man whom she had 
seen going into the wood near the mound, the doctor 
interposed his first question. 

“Can you describe the person at all? His dress, his 
bearing?” 

“Not distinctly,” she replied. “He was going from 
me and his face, of course, I could not see. In fact, as I 
have before stated, my pony was fresh, and required my 
attention. Besides, there was really no reason why I 
should look a second time at the back of a strange person 
whom I passed at some little distance. As I seem to 
recall the figure now, it was that of a rather tall, fair- 
haired man. I can say no more.” 

“And at what hour was this?” 


THE LAST STROKE 


79 


must have been nearing eight o’clock, I fancy, 
although being out for pleasure I took little notice of the 
hour.” 

No further interruptions were made until she had fin- 
ished the story of the morning’s experience, of her meet- 
ing with Doran and the others, of the drive to the village, 
and of her message to Miss Grant. 

‘‘Did you know Miss Grant?” 

“Only as I had seen her at church, and upon the street 
or in the school yard. We had never met, prior to that 
morning.” 

“And Charles Brierly? Did you know him?” 

“Only by sight. I know few people in Glenville out- 
side of my ho — of the Glenville House.” 

Both the doctor and Ferrars noted the unfinished word 
broken off at the first syllable. To the one it was a 
riddle; to the other it told something which he might 
find useful later on. 

“Mrs. Jamieson,” resumed the coroner, after consult- 
ing the detective’s card. “How far did you drive yester- 
day before you turned about upon the wood road?” 

For a moment the lady seemed to be questioning her 
memory. Then she replied. 

“The distance in miles or fractions of miles, I could 
not give. I turned the pony about, I remember, at the 
place where the road curves toward the lake, at the old 
mill, near the opening of the wood.” 

“Ah, then you could see, of course, for some distance 
Up and down the lake shore?” 


80 


THE LAST STROKE 


“I could!” 

There was a hint of surprise in her coldly courteous 
reply, • 

“And at that point did you see anything, anyone in the 
wood, or along the lake?” 

“I certainly saw no person. But — yes, I do remember 
that there was a boat at the water’s edge, not far from the 
place where I turned homeward. It was a little beyond 
or north of me.” 

“Did you observe whether there were oars in the 
boat?” 

‘T saw none, I am quite sure,” the lady replied, and this 
ended her part in the inquiry. 

But now there were some youthful, eager and valuable 
new witnesses, and their combined testimony amounted 
to this: 

When the body of their beloved teacher had been 
brought home and the first hour of excitement had 
passed, three boys, who had been among Charles Brier- 
ley’s brightest and most mischief loving and adventur- 
ous pupils, had set out, a full hour in advance of the 
elder exploring party, and had followed the lake shore 
and the wood road, one closely skirting the lake shore, 
another running through the sparse timber and under- 
growth about half way up the shallow slope and the 
third trotting down the road beyond; the three keeping 
pretty nearly parallel, until the discovery, by the lad 
upon the shore, of the boat drawn out of the water, and in 
the shade of a tree. This had brought the others down 


81 


''sr- 'V? ■ ■'' ' ■ ' ■ ^ - ,“ ' •; 


THE LAST STROKE 

to the lake and then caused them to go hastily back. 
Meeting the party of men, who were not far behind them, 
the boys had turned back with them and now there was 
a crowd of witnesses to corroborate the story of the boat. 

It stood, they all affirmed, in the shade of a spreading 
tree, so as that no sun rays had beaten upon it, and its 
sides were still damp from recent contact with the water, 
while it stood entirely upon the land. Two oars, also 
showing signs of contact with the lake, were in the little 
boat, blade ends down, and it was evident that its late 
occupant had disembarked in haste, for, while the stake 
by which the boat had been secured, stood scarcely three 
feet away, and the chain and padlock lay over the edge 
of the little craft, there had been no effort to secure it, 
and the oars had the look of having been hastily shipped 
and left thus without further care. 

When the matter of the boat had been fully investi- 
gated, the coroner and Ferrars conferred together for 
some moments, and during these moments Mrs. Jamie- 
son and her companion exchanged some whispered 
words. 

Through some mistake, it would seem, these two had 
been given places which, while aloof from the strange 
men, and almost in the rear of the jurors, brought them 
facing the open door of the inner room, where, in full 
view, the shrouded body of the murdered man lay, and 
from the first the eyes of the two seemed held and fascin- 
ated by the sight of the long, still figure outlined under 
the white covering. 


82 


THE LAST STROKE 


“Is it possible,” whispered the lady witness, “that we 
must sit here until the end, face to face with that!” She 
was trembling slightly, as she spoke. “It is making me 
nervous.” 

“And no wonder,” murmured her friend. “But it must 
be almost over. I — I confess to some curiosity. This 
is such a new and unusual sensation, to be here, you 
know.” 

“Ugh!” 

Mrs. Jamieson turned away, for the coroner was speak- 
ing. 

“There is one point,” he said, “upon which our wit- 
nesses differ, and that is the mental condition of the 
deceased during the twenty-four hours preceding his 
death. Another witness will now speak upon this mat- 
ter. Mr. Robert Brierly, the brother of Charles Brierly, 
will now testify.” 

As Robert Brierly came out from the rather secluded 
place he had heretofore occupied, at the suggestion of the 
detective, all eyes were fixed upon him. There could be 
no doubt of his relationship to the deceased. It was the 
same face, but darker and stronger; the same tall form, 
but broader and more athletic. The eyes of this man were 
darker, and more resolute than those of his dead brother; 
his hair was browner, too, and where the face of the one 
had been full of kindliness and gentle dignity, that of 
this other was strong, spirited and resolute. But, beyond 
a doubt, these two were brothers. 

There was a stir as Brierly made his way forward. 


THE LAST STROKE 


83 


paused before the coroner and faced the jury; and then, 
as his eyes fell upon the two figures in the rear of that 
body he made a sudden step forward. 

“Doctor!” he called quickly, “you are needed here! A 
lady has fainted!” 

For the moment all was forgotten, save the white face 
that had fallen back upon her friend’s shoulder, anc^ that 
seemed even whiter because of the black garments, and 
beneath the halo of fair blonde hair. 

“It was that,” explained the friend, who proved to be a 
Mrs. Arthur, pointing toward the shrouded figure in the 
inner room. “She has been growing more and more 
nervous for some time.” 

Robert Brierly was the first at her side, but, as the 
doctor took his place and he drew back a pace, a hand 
touched his arm. 

“Step aside,” whispered Ferrars, “where she cannot 
see you.” And without comprehending but answering a 
look in the detective’s eye, he obeyed. 

Mrs. Jamieson did not at once recover, and the doctor 
and Ferrars carried her across the hall and into the room 
latelv occupied by Brierly. As Mrs. Arthur followed 
them, it seemed to her that the detective, whom of course 
she did not know as such, was assuming the leadership, 
and that half a dozen quick words were spoken by him to 
the doctor, across her friend’s drooping head. 

“She must be removed immediately,” said the doctor 
a moment after. “Let some one find a carriage or pha- 
eton at once.” Then, as Ferrars did not move from his 


84 


THE LAST STROKE 


place beside the bed where they had placed the uncon- 
scious woman, he strode to the chamber door, said a 
word or two to, Doran, who had followed them as far as 
the door, and came back to his place beside the bed. 

Before Mrs. Jamieson had opened her eyes a low wag- 
onette was at the door, and when the lady became con- 
scious and had been raised and given a stimulating 
draught, she was lifted again by Ferrars and doctor 
Barnes and carried to the waiting vehicle, followed by 
Mrs. Arthur. 

“Kindly take the place beside the driver, madam,” 
directed the doctor. “My friend will go with the lady 
and assist her; it will be best. It is possible that she may 
faint again.” And so they drove away, Mrs. Arthur 
beside Doran, the driver; and Mrs. Jamieson, still pallid 
and tremulous, leaning upon the supporting shoulder of 
Ferrars, silent and with closed eyes. 

As he lifted her from the wagonette, and assisted her 
up the steps and within the door, however, the lady 
seemed to recover herself with an effort. She had 
crossed the threshold supported by Ferrars on the one 
side, and leaning upon her frrend’s arm upon the other, 
and at the door of the reception room she turned, saying 
faintly: 

“Let me rest here first. Before we go up stairs, I 
mean.” Then, withdrawing her hand from her friend’s 
arm, she seemed to steady herself, and standing more 
erect, turned to Ferrars. 

“I must not trouble you longer, now, sir. You have 


THE LAST STROKE 


85 


been most kind.” Her voice faltered, she paused a 
moment, and then held out her hand. “I should like very 
much to hear the outcome,” she hesitated. 

“With your permission,” the detective replied quickly, 
“I will call to ask after your welfare, and to inform you 
if I can.” He turned to go, but she made a movement 
toward him. 

“That poor girl,” she said, “I pity her so. Do you 
know her well, sir?” She was quite herself now, but her 
voice was still weak and tremulous. 

“You have not heard, I see, that she is my cousin.” 

“No. I would like to call upon her. Will you ask 
her if I may?” He nodded ‘and she added quickly: 
“And call, if you please, to-morrow.” 

Robert Brierly told his story almost without interrup- 
tion; all that he knew of his brothers life in the village; 
of his own, of his coming earlier than he was expected 
and of his firm belief that his brother had been made the 
victim of foul play. Possibly killed by mistake, because 
of some fancied resemblance ; for his life, which had been 
like an open book to all his friends, held no secrets, no 
“episodes,” and enemies he never had one. In short 
he could throw no light upon the mystery of his brother’s 
death. Rather, his story made that death seem more 
mysterious than at first because of the possibilities that it 
rendered at least probable. 

But this evidence had its effect upon a somewhat bu- 
colic jury. That Charles Brierly had been shot by another 
hand than his own, had been very clearly demonstrated. 


THE LAST STROKE 


for his brother would have no doubt whatever left upon 
this point; while he little knew how much the judicious 
whispers and hints uttered in the right places, and with 
apparent intent of confidence and secrecy, had to do with 
the shaping of the verdict, which was as follows ; 

“We, the jury, find that the deceased, Charles Brierly, 
died from a bullet wound, fired, according to our belief, 
by mistake or accident, and at the hands of some person 
unknown.” 

And now came the question of proof. 

“It must be cleared up,” said Robert Brierly to the 
detective. “I am not a rich man, Mr. Ferrars, but all 
that I have shall be spent at need to bring the truth to 
light. For I never can rest until I have learned it. It is 
my duty to my dead brother, father, mother — all.” 

And late that night, alone in his room he looked out 
upon the stars hung low upon the eastern horizon and 
murmured — 

“Ah, Ruth, Ruth, we were far enough asunder before, 
and now — Ah, it was well to have left you your freedom, 
for now the gulf is widening; it may soon, it will soon be 
impassable.” And he sighed heavily, as a strong man 
sighs when the tears are very near his eyes and the pain 
close to his heart. 


CHAPTER VII. 


TRICKERY. 

As was quite natural the three men, thrown so 
strangely and unexpectedly together at the doctor’s cot- 
tage, sat up late after the inquest, and discussed the 
strange death of Charles Brierly, in all its bearings. As 
a result of this they slept somewhat late, except the detec- 
tive, who let himself out of the house at sunrise, and 
lighting a cigar, set off for a short walk up one certain 
street, and down another. He walked slowly, and looked 
indolently absorbed in his cigar. But it was a very 
observant eye that noted, from under the peak of his 
English cap, the streets, the houses and the very few 
stray people whom he passed. It was not the people, 
though, in whom he was chiefly interested. Ferrars was 
intently studying the topography of the town, at least of 
that portion of it which he was then traversing with such 
seeming aimlessness. 

From the doctor’s cottage he had sauntered north for 
several blocks, crossed over, until he reached the upper 
or terraced street, and followed it until he had reached the 
southern edge of the village and was in sight of the 
scliool house not far beyond. Turning here he crossed 
a street or two and was nearing the house where the dead 


THE LAST STROKE 


school teacher had lived, when he saw the front door of 
the house open, and a woman come out and hasten away 
in the direction in which he was moving. She hurried 
on like one intent upon some absorbing errant, and, 
knowing the house as the late home of Charles Brierly, 
and the woman as its mistress, Ferrars quickened his 
steps that he might keep her in sight, and when she 
turned the corner leading directly to the doctor’s cottage 
he further increased his speed, feeling instinctively that 
her errand, whatever its nature, would take her there. 

He was not far behind her now, and he saw the doctor 
standing alone upon the side porch, saw the woman enter 
at the side gate, and the meeting of the two. 

Mrs. Fry, with her back toward him, was making 
excited gestures, and the face of the doctor, visible above 
her head, changed from a look of mild wonder to such 
sudden anxiety and amazement that the detective halted 
at the gate, hesitating, and was seen at that instant by the 
doctor, who beckoned him on with a look of relief. 

“Look here, Ferrars,” he began, and then turned to 
assure himself that Brierly had not arisen, and was not 
observing them from the office window. “Come this way 
a few steps,” moving away from the porch and halting 
where the shadow of the wing hid them from view from 
within the main dwelling. “And now, Mrs. Fry, please 
tell Mr. Grant what you had begun to tell me. I want 
his opinion on it. He’s not a bad lawyer.” 

“A good detective’d be the right thing, I think,” 
declared the woman. “It’s about Mr. Brierly’s room, sir. 


THE LAST STROKE 


89 


He had a small bed room, and another opening out from 
it where he used to read and study. You know how 
they were, doctor!” 

The doctor nodded silently. 

‘‘Well, last night, you rernember, when you brought 
this gentleman and his brother to my place to look at the 
rooms. You or he decided not to go up then, but told 
me to close the rooms, and he would come to-morrow — ■ 
to-day — that would be.” 

“Yes, yes!” said the doctor, impatiently, “we remember 
all that, Mrs. Fry.” 

“Well, I’d had the rooms locked ever since I heard 
that he was dead.” Mrs. Fry was growing somewhat 
hazy as to her pronouns. “And I had the key in my 
pocket. Then, well, after a while I lit the lamp in the sit- 
tin’ room so’s it wouldn’t seem so gloomy in the house, 
and went out and sat on my side stoop, and after a little 
my neighbor on that side, Mrs. Robson, came acrost the 
lawn — there aint no fence between, ye know — and we 
talked for some time, and my little girl fell asleep with 
her head in my lap.” 

“Don’t be too long with the story,” broke in the doc- 
tor. “I don’t want it to spoil Mr. Brierly’s breakfast, for 
he needs it badly.” 

“Yes, sir. Well, just about that time — it must have 
been half past eight, I guess— and there was plenty of 
folks all along the street, a boy came running across the 
lawn and right up to me. 

“ ‘If you please,’ he says, touching his hat rim, ‘Mr. 


90 


THE LAST STROKE 


Brierly, down to the doctor’s, forgot to get the key to his 
brother’s room, and he sent me to get it for him.’ I 
s’pose I was foolish. I felt hurt, thinkin’ he couldn’t 
trust me with his brother’s things, an’ so I jest hands out 
the key and no questions asked.” 

A look of sudden alertness shot from the eyes of the 
detective, and he arrested the doctor’s evident impatience 
l)y a quick shake of the head unperceived by the woman, 
who was addressing her narrative to the doctor, as was 
natural. 

“I s’pose,” she went on, “that I shouldn’t a’ done it, 
but I didn’t scent anything wrong then. Mrs. Robson 
went home in a few minutes, and then I roused my little 
girl up and took her in and put her to bed. She was 
asleep again a’most as soon as her head touched the 
pillow, and the night was so pleasant-like that I threw my 
shawl on my shoulders and went out onto the front stoop. 
I felt sort o’ lonesome in the house all alone.” 

“Of course,” commented Ferrars, seeing the dread of 
their criticism or displeasure that was manifest in her 
face as she paused and looked from one to the other. 
“One naturally would in your place.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” she went on, reassured. “Well, 
I hadn’t been out there two minutes when that same boy 
came running up the walk, all out of breath, and says, 
sort of panting between words, ‘Ma'am, the lady that 
lives next the engine house by the corner stopped me 
just now an’ asked me to come back here an beg you to 


THE LAST STROKE 


91 


come down there quick! Her little boy’s got himself 
burned awful!’” 

‘'Ah! I see!” Ferrars spoke low, as if to himself, and 
his face wore the look of one who is beginning to under- 
stand a riddle. "You went, of course?” 

"Yes, I went.” 

"Go on with the story, please. Tell it all as you have 
begun. Let us have the details,” and he again nodded 
toward the doctor, who was regarding him with profound 
surprise, and put a finger to his lip. 

"My sister-in-law lives in the house by the engine 
house,” Mrs. Fry hurried on, "and knowing how careless 
she is about keepin’ things in the house against such 
times, I ran back into my bed room and got a bottle of 
camphor, and a roll of cotton batt. ‘Run ahead, boy,’ I 
says to the boy, ‘an’ tell her I am coming; I must lock 
up my doors and winders.’ ‘She’s in an awful hurry,’ he 
says, ‘cry in’ fit to kill. Fll set right down here and watch 
your house, mam; I can do no good there.’ The boy 
spoke so honest and Mary’s boy is such a dear little fel- 
low, that I jest lost my head complete, and ran off down 
the sidewalk. At the corner I looked back. The boy 
was sittin’ on the door step, an’ I heard him whistlin’; 
someway it made me feel quite easy. But when I got to 
the house and found them all in the sitting room, and 
Neddy not hurt at all, but sound asleep on the floor, I was 
so took back that I just dropped down on a chair and 
acted like a wild woman. Instead of rushin’ back that 
very minute, T sat there and told how I had been tricked, 


92 


THE LAST STROKE 


and vscokled about that boy, an’ vowed I’d have him well 
punished, and so on, until Mary reminded me that I’d 
better get back home and see if the house was all right, or 
if ’twas only a boy’s trick.” 

‘Tt looked like one, surely,” was the detective’s easy 
comment. 

“That’s what Mr. Jones said. He’s my neighbor. He 
was just going home, and we overtook him. Mary told 
him about the boy and he laughed and said that some 
boys had played that sort of trick last summer, two or 
three times, sending people running across the town on 
some such fool’s errand. He thought maybe ’twas some 
boy that I had offended some way; and thenT thought 
about how crisp I was about givin’ the boy Mr. Brierly’s 
key, and it made me feel sort of easier. But Mr. Jones 
went in with us when we got to my house. We looked 
all around down stairs and everything was allright. Nel- 
lie was fast asleep still, and not a thing had been dis- 
turbed. Then we went up stairs, Just for form’s sake,’ 
Mr. Jones said, and looked in all the bed rooms and even 
tried Mr. Brierly’s door. Everything seemed right and 
so Mr. Jones and Mary went away, and I went to bed. 
But someway I couldn’t sleep sound. I felt provoked 
and angry about that boy, and the more I thought of him, 
of his being a stranger and all, the uneasier I got. Then 
I began to imagine I heard queer sounds, and creaking 
doors, and, right on the heels of all that, came a loud slam 
that waked Nellie, and made me skip right out of bed,” 


THE LAST STROKE 


93 


“A shutter, of course,” said the doctor, as she paused 
for breath. 

“Yes, a shutter, and I knew well that every shutter on 
my house was either shut tight or locked open. I look 
to that, every night, as soon as it’s lamp-lighting time; 
them down stairs I shut, them up stairs I open, some- 
times. I knew where that slammin’ shutter was by the 
sound, and it set me to dressing quick. I had opened the 
shutters on Mr. Brierly’s windows that very afternoon, 
thinking the rooms would not seem quite so dreary and 
lonesome when his brother came to look through ’em, 
and they was locked open, I knew well ! All the same, it 
was them shutters, or one of ’em, that was clattering 
then, and I knew it.” 

^“Were you alone in the house, you and your little 
girl?” asked Ferrars. 

“All alone, yes, sir; and I took Nellie with me and went 
out into the hall — ” 

“You mean down stairs?” 

“Yes, sir. We sleep down stairs. Now, I thought I 
had seen that everything was right when Mr. Jones and 
jMary was with me, but when we went into that hall — ■ 
Doctor — ” turning again toward that gentleman, for she 
had addressed her later remarks to Ferrars,— “I guess 
you may remember a shelf just at the foot of the stairs. 
It’s right behind the door, when it stands open, and that’s 
why we hadn’t seen it, or I hadn’t before. Well, I always 
set the lamp for Mr. Brierly’s room— his bed room lamp, 
that is — on that shelf for him every morning, as soon as it 


THE LAST STROKE 


94 

had been filled for the night’s burning; and the morning 
he was killed I had put it there as usual, and it 
had been there ever since. It was there when Mr, 
Brierly and you two gentlemen called, after the inquest.’' 

A queer little sound escaped the detective’s throat 
and again he checked the doctor’s impatience with that 
slight movement of the head. 

“I don’t call myself brave,” the woman went on, “but 
I caught Nellie by the hand — I was carrying my bed 
room lamp — and ran up the stairs and straight to Mr. 
Brierly ’s door. I don’t know what made me do it, but 
I stooped down to look through the keyhole, and there 
in the door, was the very key I had given to that boy to 
take to Mr. Brierly ’s brother.” 

“What did you do?” asked the doctor, breathlessly. 

“I set down my lamp very softly, told Nellie in a 
whisper not to make a noise, and then very carefully tried 
the key. It turned in the lock. I didn’t dare go in, but 
I locked the door, left the key in it, and went down stairs 
and out at the front door. I went around the house and 
stood under the window of that room. The side window 
shutter that I had fastened back was swinging loose. I 
went back to the sitting room, locking the front door and 
the doors from the hall into the front room and sitting 
room, taking out the key of the front door, and leaving 
the other keys in the locks, on my side. Then I lit the 
big lamp, pulled down the curtains, fixed the side door 
^o I could open it quick, and set the big dinner bell close 
by it. I made Nellie lie down on the lounge with her 


THE LAST STROKE 


91 : 


clothes on, and there I sat till morning. Before daylight 
I went into the kitchen and moved about very softly to 
get myself a cup of coffee, and a bite of breakfast for 
Nellie. I had been careful not to let her see how I was 
scared and she went sound asleep right away. As soon 
as I thought you would be up I awoke my little girl, and 
left her sitting upon the side stoop, while I came here to 
you. Mr. Brierly’s brother ought to be first to enter 
that room, and — if there was anyone there last night — 
they’re there yet.” 

'AVhat room is that which I ought to enter, Mrs. Fry?” 
said a voice behind them, and turning, all together, they 
saw Robert Brierly standing at the edge of the porch 
where it joined the wall of the doctor’s room. 

“I was afraid of this,” muttered Doctor Barnes. But 
the detective seemed in no wise disconcerted. Neither 
did he seem inclined to listen, or allow Brierly to listen to 
a repetition of Mrs. Fry’s story. 

“You are here just in time, Mr. Brierly,” he said, 
briskly. “Mrs. Fry believes that someone has paid a visit 
to your brother’s room during the night, and as she says, 
you are the one who should investigate, and I think it 
ought to be done at once, if you feel up to it.” 

“Fll be with you in a moment,” replied Brierly, 
promptly, and he went indoors by way of the French 
windows which had given him egress. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A IvETTBR. 

As Robert Brierly entered the house, the detective now 
taking the lead as a matter of course, turned toward Mrs. 
Fry. 

‘T see that you are anxious to get back home,” he said 
to her. “And it is as well that you go back in advance of 
us, for people are beginning to move about. Wait for us 
at the side door.” And then, as the woman hastened 
away, he turned toward the doctor. “You need not feci 
uneasy because of your guest. Doc.,” he said, with his 
rare and fine smile. “There are times when the physical 
man is in subjection to the spiritual man, or the wih 
power within him, if you like that better. Brierly has 
already endured a severe mental strain, I grant, but he’s 
not at the end of his endurance yet. In fact, if he’s the 
journalist, and I begin to think so, he knows how to sus- 
tain mental strain long and steadily. You don’t fancy he 
could be persuaded to wait for meat and drink now, do 
you?” 

“My soul, man!” exclaimed Doctor Barnes, “how you 
do read a man’s thoughts! No! Brierly wouldn’t stop 
for anything now. Nor you, either, for that matter. 
What do you make of this?” 

(96) 


THE LAST STROKE 


97 


‘T can tell you better in an hour from now, I hope. 
Here’s Brierly. Now then, gentlemen, try and look as if 
this was merely a morning walk. We don’t want to 
excite the curiosity of the neighbors.” 

There seemed little need of this caution, for they saw 
no one as they crossed to the quiet street in which Mrs. 
Fry lived. But Ferrars, who had fallen behind the oth- 
ers, had an observant eye upon all within range, as if, 
as the doctor afterward declared, he held the very town 
itself under suspicion. 

Mrs. Fry awaited them at the side door, and unlocked 
the one leading to the front hall and stairway at once. 

'T hope one of you has got a pistol,” she said, ner- 
vously, as they approached the stairs. 

^There’s no one up there, Mrs. Fry,” replied Ferrars. 
“Never fear.” But Mrs. Fry was not so positive. She 
closed the sitting room door, all but the merest crack, and 
stood ready to clap it entirely shut at the first sound of 
attack and defense from the room above. 

Meantime Robert Brierly, who had led the way up 
stairs, placed a firm hand upon the key, turned it and 
softly opened the door. Then, for a moment, all three 
stood still at the threshold, gazing within. 

It was Francis Ferrars who spoke the first word, with 
his hand upon Robert Brierly’s shoulder and his voice 
little more than a whisper. 

“Go inside, Brierly, quickly and quietly.” He gave the 
shoulder under his hand a quick, light, forward pressure, 
and instinctively, as it seemed, Brierly stepped across the 


98 


THE LAST STROKE 


threshold with the other two close at his heels, and, the 
moment they were inside the room, Ferrars turned and 
silently withdrew the key from the outer side, closed the 
door cautiously, and relocked it from within. 

“We will do well to dispense with Mrs. Fry, at least for 
the present,” he said coolly. “It’s plain enough there has 
been mischief here. Mr. Brierly, you saw this room last 
night, for a moment.” 

Robert Brierly, who had dropped weakly upon a chair, 
stopped him with a movement of the hand. 

“Mr. Ferrars,” he said, “I realize the importance of a 
right beginning here, and if you will undertake this case 
— I am not a rich man, you understand — all I have is at 
your disposal. I could hardly bear to have my brother’s 
rooms searched by strange hands in my absence, but will 
it not be wise that you should take the lead, and begin as 
you deem best?” 

“Yes,” replied the detective, “but your assistance will 
be helpful.” 

“Mrs. Fry is coming up stairs,” broke in the doctor, 
who had been standing near the door. 

Ferrars sprang across the room, turned the key, and 
put his head out through the smallest possible opening in 
the door. 

“There’s no one here, Mrs. Fry; and nothing missing, 
that we have observed. It was, no doubt, a boyish trick.” 

He smiled amiably at the somewhat surprised woman. 

“When Mr. Brierly has had time to look about a bit he 
will of course report to you.” And he closed the door in 


THE LAST STROKE 


09 


the good woniaivs astonished face. “Letter make no 
confidants until we know what we have to confide,” he 
said, turning back to survey the room afresii. “Now let 
us have more light here.” 

The room in which they were, was dimly lighted, for 
the outer blinds of its three windows had been closed, and 
all the light afforded them came from the one nearest the 
front corner, where half the shutter was swinging loosely 
at the will of the morning breeze. This light, however 
enabled them to see that the room was in some confusion 
or ratlier, that it was not in the same neat order in which 
they had seen it on the previous day. 

The writing desk, which later Mrs. Fry declared to have 
been closed, was now open, and a portion of the contents 
of its usually neatly arranged pigeon holes was scattered 
upon the leaf. 

“This,” said Brierly, as they approached it, “was closed 
when I saw it last night.” 

“I remember,” Ferrars nodded, and sat down in the 
revolving chair before the desk, and without touching 
anytliing ran his eye carefully over the scattered papers 
examined the pigeon holes, the locks and even the fine 
coating of dust. 

Upon a round table near the front window were some 
scattered books, mostly of reference, a pile of unruled 
manuscript tablets, and a little, heap of written sheets. 
There was a set of bookshelves above the writing desk, 
and a wire rack near it was filled with newspapers and 
magazines. 


loo 


THE LAST STROKE 


When Ferrars had carefully noted the appearance of 
the desk and its contents, he swung slowly around in the 
swivel chair and gazed all about him without rising.' He 
had noted the books above him with a thoughtful gaze, 
and he now fixed that same speculative glance upon those 
upon the table. Then he got up. 

“Oblige me by not so much as touching this desk yet,” 
he said, and crossed to the table. “Your brother was a 
magazinist, Mr. Brierly?” he queried. 

“Yes,” replied Brierly. 

Ferrars turned toward the. inner room which the others 
had not yet approached. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly, and then, in an altered 
tone, “Here is Mrs. Fry’s missing lamp.” 

His two companions came to the door of the room, 
where Ferrars was now looking down at the pillows of 
the bed. 

“Brierly,” asked Ferrars as they paused in the door- 
way, “what had your brother with him in the way of 
valuables, to your knowledge?” 

The young man, who had been looking sharply about 
the room like one who seeks something which should be 
there, started slightly. 

“Why, he had a somewhat odd and valuable watch 
which was given him by our father upon our setting out 
for Europe. It was like this,” and he produced a very 
beautiful specimen of the watch maker’s art, and held it 
out for inspection. “He also had a ring set with a fine 
opal, that was once our mother’s, and a locket with her 







V 



r- -f. 




4 


> 



I 


*1 


• , 



I > 

V- 


t 


% 


s 


« 


/ , 

' ' 

r- * 


•-1 

t 

I' 




> 


I 


k 



1 • 
t - 


IS’ 

* 1 


•Jr 


-K'" 


• - 




f 

<•' 



* 

k '' 









t 














w 




\ 















THE LAST STROKE 


monogram. There were also some odd trifles that he 
had picked up abroad, saying that they would become 
his future wife, no doubt.” 

“And you think these were still in his possession?” 

‘T do. In writing of Miss Grant not long ago he men- 
tioned as a proof of her refinement and womanly delicacy 
that she would accept no gifts from him other than books 
or flowers.” 

“I think,” said Ferrars, gravely, “that we had better 
liave Mrs. Fry in here now, and I want you to do the 
talking, Brierly. Doctor, if you will ask her to come up, 
Fll post Mr. Brierly, meantime.” 

The doctor turned the key in the lock and then hesi- 
tated. “I dare say I will not be needed here longer?” 

“You!” Ferrars turned upon him quickly. “Is there 
anything urgent outside?” 

“Not especially so — only — ” 

“Only you fancy yourself de trop? If you can spare us 
the time, we want you right here, doctor. Eh, Mr, 
Brierly?” 

“By all means.” 

“Then of course I am at your disposal,” and the doc- 
tor went out in search of Mrs. Fry. 

“I wish there were more men with his combined deli- 
cacy and good sense,” grumbled Ferrars, and then he 
began to explain to Brierly what was wanted from Mrs. 
Fry. 

When that good woman entered, Ferrars was seated by 


104 the last stroke 

the furthest window, and Robert Brierly met her at the 
door. 

'‘Mrs. Fry,” he began, "will you kindly look about you, 
without, of course, disturbing or changing things, and 
tell us if you see anything that has changed? If you 
miss anything, or if anything, in your opinion, has been 
tampered with? Look through both rooms carefully, 
and then give us your opinion.” 

Mrs. Fry, who had been expecting just such a sum- 
mons and who fully realized the gravity of the occasion, 
stood still in her place near the door and looked slowly 
about her; then she began to walk about the room. Once 
or twice Brierly, prompted by a glance from the detec- 
tive, had to warn her against putting a finger upon some 
object, but she went about with firmly closed lips until 
she had reached the little sleeping room. Then — 

"Well, I declare!” she broke out. "If they haven’t 
even been at the bed!” 

Brierly started forward, but Ferrars held up a warning 
finger. 

"And there’s that lamp!” she went on, "with the 
chimney all smoked! Somebody’s been carrying it 
around burning full tilt.” 

By this time Ferrars was so close beside Brierly that he 
could breathe a low word in his ear, from time to time, 
unnoted by the woman as she went peering about. 

"You are sure the bed has been disturbed?” Brierly 
asked. 


"Certain of it!” 


THE LAST STROKE 


105 


‘‘And can you guess why?’’ 

“Well, he always kept his pistol under the bolster.” 

The men started and looked at each other. “What 
an oversight,” murmured the doctor. 

“Do you mean,” went on the inquiry, “that it was there 
yesterday morning, when you .made the bed?” 

“I can’t say, sir. The fact is, I was awfully afraid of 
the thing, and when I told him I was, he put it clear 
under the bolster with his own hand, and said it should 
stay there, instead of on top, as it used to be at first.” 

“You don’t mean that he left it there during the day?” 

“Yes, sir! This one. You see, he had two. The one 
he used to practice with — the one they found — was dif- 
ferent. This one was bigger and different somehow 
ferent. This one was bigger and not like any pistol I 
ever saw. He told me ’twas a foreign weapon.” 

“She is right,” said Brierly. “My brother brought a 
pair of duelling pistols from Paris. They were elabor- 
ately finished. He gave me one of them.” He looked 
anxiously toward the crushed and displaced pillows. 
“Shall we not look,” he asked, “and find out if anything is 
there? Will you look, Mr. Ferrars? Or did you?” 

Ferrars moved forward. “No, I did not look,” he said. 
“But the weapon is not there ; I could almost swear to it. 
Come — see, all of you.” 

With a quick light hand he removed the pillows, 
turned back the sheets and lifted the bolster. There was 
nothing beneath it, save the impression where the 
weapon had laid upon the mattress. 


106 


THE LAST STROKE 


The detective turned toward Mrs. Fry. ‘-You are sure 
it was here usually?” he questioned. 

•T have lifted that bolster carefully every day, and have 
always seen it,” she declared. When I wanted to turn the 
mattress he always took away the pistol himself.” 

Ferrars turned away from the bed, and Brierly 
resumed his role of questioner. 

“What else do you miss or find disturbed, Mrs. Fry?” 

She went back to the outer room after a last slow 
glance about the chamber. 

“There is the lamp, of course,” she began. ‘That was 
taken from the shelf to give them light. Then the writ- 
ing desk has been opened, as you see, and the things on 
that table have been disturbed, the books shoved about, 
and the papers moved. I think,” going slowly toward 
the article, “that even the waste basket and the paper 
holder have been rummaged.” 

“And, do you miss anything here?” 

Mrs. Fry shook her head. “I don’t s’pose you’ve 
searched the writing desk yet?” she ventured. 

“Not yet. And is that all you observe, Mrs. Fry? The 
bed, the lamp, the desk, table, rack and basket?” 

She went back to the table and pointed out with 
extended forefinger a couple of burned matches, one 
upon a corner of the table, one upon the floor almost 
beneath it. 

“They lit that lamp there!” she said. “And they 
brought their own matches. I never use those ‘parlor 
matches,’ as they call ’em!” She bent her head to look 


. THE LAST STROKE 


107 


closer at the polished surface of the table, and then 
walked to the open window, where the shutter still swung 
in the breeze. ^‘It has been awful dusty since yesterday, 
seems to me, for this time of year. That boy’s left his 
finger prints on this window, as well’s on the table there.” 

“Don’t touch them!” It was Ferrars who spoke and so 
sharply that the woman turned suddenly, but not soon 
enough to note the swift gesture which directed his 
exclamation. 

“Of course we may rely upon you to keep the fact that 
my brother’s rooms have been entered in this manner, 
from everyone, for the present. It may be very import- 
ant that we do not let it be known beyond the four of us. 
You have not seen or spoken with anyone as yet, I think 
you said?” 

“I haven’t, and I wont. I’d do more than that for the 
sake of your brother, Mr. Brierly, and you’ve only to tell 
me what I can do.” 

“I intend to examine my brother’s papers now, Mrs. 
Fry, before I leave the house, and if we should need you 
again we will let you know.” And Mrs. Fry withdrew, 
puzzled and wondering much, but with her lips tightly set 
over the secret she must and would help to preserve. 

“She’ll keep silent, never fear,” said the doctor as the 
door closed behind her. “And now, Brierly, I must 
remind you that you will need all your strength, and that 
I don’t like your color this morning. If you must inves- 
tigate at once, get it over, for you, even more than Fer- 
rars or I, need your morning coffee and steak.” 


108 


THE LAST STROKE 


‘That is true/’ agreed Ferrars. “Brierly, let me ask , 
two questions and then oblige me by leaving certain 
marks, which I will point out to you, just as you find 
them.” 

“Your questions.” Brierly had already seated himself 
before his brother’s desk. 

‘T have an idea that this old oak writing desk was not 
selected by our friend, Mrs. Fry. Am I right?” 

“It is my brother’s desk; bought for its compact and 
portable qualities.” 

“Good! Now, where did your brother usually keep 
these keepsakes and bits of foreign jewelry?” 

“In one of these drawers. He kept them in a lacquered 
Japanese box.” 

“Look for them. And, before you begin, oblige me 
by not touching that letter file above the desk, nor the 
desk top just below it.” 

The letter file held only a few bits of paper, apparently 
notes and memoranda ; and upon the flat top of the desk 
was a bronze ink well, a pen tray, a thin layer of dust and 
nothing more, except a tiny scrap of paper hardly as big 
as a thumb nail, which lay directly beneath the letter file. 
Brierly cast a wandering glance over the desk top and file 
and set about his task. 

There was quite a litter of papers, letters mostly, 
together with some loose sheets that contained figures, 
dates, or something begun and cast aside. Below some 
of the pigeon holes, letters lay as if hastily pulled out, 
and from one of these little receptacles three or four 


THE LAST STROKE 


109 


envelopes protruded, half out, half in — one, a square 
white envelope, projecting beyond the others. These, 
Brierly pulled forth, and turning them over in his hand 
scrutinized their superscriptions. Then, slowly, he took 
the square, white wrapper from among the others and 
drew out the letter it contained. As he began to scan 
the page of closely lined writing he started, frowned, 
flushed hotly, and then with a look of fierce anger he 
thrust the sheet back into its envelope, and turned toward 
the detective. 

“Take that!” he said with a curl of the lip. “Unless I 
am greatly at fault, it’s a document in the case.” 

Ferrars took the letter from him, and asked, as he 
thrust it into the pocket of his loose coat without so much 
as glancing at it, “Do you mind my running over the 
papers in this rack, Brierly? and looking into the waste 
basket?” 

“Do it, by all means,” was the reply as Brierly pulled 
open the topmost drawer; and then, for some time there 
was silence, save for the rustle of paper or the rasping 
of a hinge or turtiing knob. 

When Brierly had finished his silent search of the two 
drawers, he approached the detective with a small 
lacquered box in his hand. 

“The watch and the foreign jewels are gone,” he said, 
holding out the open box. “And what do you think of 
this? Here are my mother’s keepsakes, wrapped in tissue 
paper, and labelled in my brother’s hand, ‘Mementos. 
From my mother.’ The thief has spared these.” 


110 


THE LAST STROKE 


The detective, who was now seated beside the table, 
holding a folded newspaper in his hand, took the box, 
looked at the tiny packet within, nodded and passed it 
silently to the doctor. 

"‘And now,” went on Robert Brierly, and there was a 
new ring of resolution and menace in his voice. 'T turn 
the rooms and all they contain, over to you, Mr. Ferrars, 
and I await your opinion, when you have read that letter 
in your pocket.” 

Ferrars drew forth the envelope and looked at it for the 
first time. It was only a fragment, for a large corner 
of its face was missing, the corner, in fact, which should 
have borne the postage stamp and the postmaster’s seal. 

Without a word he held this side toward the two men, 
extending it first to one, and then to the other. 

'‘You see!” he said, and then to Brierly. “Was it your 
brother’s habit to tear his letters open in such a reckless 
manner?” 

“No. He was almost dainty in all his ways.” 

“Is there another letter in that desk torn as this is?” 

Without a word Brierly took the letter and went back 
to the desk, catching the letters from their pigeon holes 
by the handful. 

“I understand,” he said, when he came back to them. 
“No, there is not a torn envelope there.” 

“Then,” said the detective, “I think I may venture to 
give an opinion even before I look at this letter.” 


CHAPTER X. 


THIS HELPS ME. 

The three men were now standing grouped about the 
table with its scattered books and manuscripts, and Fer- 
rars bent toward Robert Brierly, putting a hand upon his 
shoulder. 

“Brierly,” he said, “sit down; this thing is using up 
your strength. I will tell you what I think of all this, 
and then we must lock up this place for a little while just 
as it is.” And as Brierly obediently dropped into the 
chair which the doctor quickly placed beside him, the 
detective resumed. 

“Since yesterday, half a dozen theories have suggested 
themselves to my mind as possible explanations of this 
very daring murder, for I am now fully convinced that it 
is nothing less; but I make it a rule never to accept, much 
less announce a belief until I have established at least a 
reasonable series of corroborative circumstances. This I 
have not done entirely to my satisfaction, and so we will 
not go into the theory of the case, but will see what facts 
we have established; and fact number one, to my mind 
is this: Your brother, Mr. Brierly, was most certainly 
shot down with malice aforethought. He could not have 
shot himself, and no one, in that open place, could have 

(III) 


112 


THE LAST STROKE 


killed him by accident. He may have been entirely 
unaware of it, but he had an enemy ; and the deed of yes- 
terday was planned, I believe, long ago, and studied care- 
fully in every detail.” 

Robert Brierly flushed and paled. He opened his lips 
as if to speak but the detective’s eyes were steadfastly 
turned away, and he resumed almost at once. 

“I blame myself that I did not establish myself here 
last night, as I at first thought .of doing. But it is too 
late for useless regret. And now, about this boy. Have 
you, either of you, a thought, a suspicion, as to his 
identity?” 

The doctor shook his head. 

. “You can’t suspect one of the pupils, surely?” hazarded 
Brierly. 

“Be sure that Mrs. Fry knows every pupil in Glen- 
ville, by sight, at least; and this lad was a stranger, 
remember. It was a clever lad who first secured the key 
to these rooms and then decoyed Mrs. Fry half way 
across the town perhaps. How long must it have taken 
her. Doc, to go and come, in haste?” 

“Quite half an hour, I should think.” 

“Well, we will assure ourselves of that later. Now we 
will suppose that this strange boy was acquainted with 
these rooms to some extent, and that he was, I fully 
believe. When Mrs. Fry is out of sight, and we know, 
from her story, that he was careful that she should be 
before he left his station upon the front porch — he slips 
indoors and evidently knows where to look for a lamp. 


THE LAST STROKE 


113 


which he does not light until he is inside this room.” 
And Ferrars put a finger upon the match remarked upon 
by Mrs. Fry. “Now, as Mrs. Fry observed, there has 
been quite a film of dust in the air for the past twenty- 
four hours, so that, in spite of the good woman’s tidy 
ways, it has accumulated upon this dark and shining 
wood.” And he put down his finger and called their 
attention to its prints upon the table at his side. 

“When we entered this room,” he went on, “anc I took 
it upon myself to look at that window, with the swinging 
blind, under pretense of opening the shutters, I first 
noted that the visitor had left us a clue to his identity; 
several clues, indeed. Before seeing these, I had thought 
that the boy was only an advance guard for some one 
else, but I see I was wrong. It was the boy, and a very 
keen and clever boy, who entered here alone. See upaa 
this table, upon the window sills, and upon the desk, the 
prints of one, two and sometimes all four, small slender 
fingers.” 

Ferrars paused a moment, while they examined the 
dust prints, faint but yet clear, upon the dark wood, and 
making lines of clearer color upon the painted brown of 
the window sills. 

“And what?” asked Brierly, speaking for the first time 
since the detective began his explanation, “What was his 
real object?” 

“His real object! Ah, I see you have been observant, 
and if I am not much mistaken, he has left something; 
but the things he took were taken solely to cover up the 


114 


THE LAST STROKE 


real reason of his coming. Mr. Charles Brierly’s pistol, 
his watch and the foreign bijouterie were so little wanted 
by this remarkable boy that he will no doubt get rid of 
them ill some way at the first opportunity. All but one 
thing.” 

^‘And that?” asked Brierly, breathlessly. 

Ferrars walked over to the writing desk and signed 
them to follow. “Observe that letter file!” he said. 
“There is not much upon it, bills for school books, two or 
three circulars, and so on, but observe that this file hangs 
over the top of the desk so that anything falling from it 
would touch just here.” He moistened the tip of a fore- 
finger, and touching with it a small bit of paper lying 
upon the top of the desk, and just below the letter file, he 
lifted it deftly, and they all saw beneath it the dust of the 
previous day upon the polished surface. 

“This,” said Ferrars, holding out the bit of paper upon 
the palm of his hand, “was torn from something pulled 
from this file since Mrs. Fry dusted the furniture here 
yesterday morning, after Charles Brierly left the house. 
See, as the paper was pulled from the file this bit came 
off, because it was attached at the corner, as you see. 
It is a fragment from a newspaper. If it had been a 
letter the paper would not have parted so readily; it 
would merely have torn through.” 

It was, indeed, a tiny scrap of newspaper, not of the 
best quality, and not half an inch from the smoothly-cut 
corner to the ragged edge, where the file had perforated 
it. 


THE LAST STROKE 


115 


“The slip of printed paper from which this was torn/’ 
said Ferrars, “was the one thing which was taken from 
this room because it was wanted! The rest were merely 
carried away as a blind.” 

“But,” asked the doctor, “why did he make this search 
among the books and papers?” 

“To find perhaps this very thing,” replied Ferrars. 
“But his first and most important errand was this.” He 
drew forth the letter given into his hands by Robert 
Brierly, and held it toward them. “Witness the thing 
itself. It bears no post-mark, it never did bear one, and 
it is thrust into the most conspicuous place, doubtless, 
after some looking about, in search of a better. I do not 
know its contents but I guess.” 

A gesture from Brierly cut short his speech. “Read it, 
both of you,” he said, with something like a groan. 
“And tell me what it means.” 

Ferrars drew forth the sheet of note paper and slowly 
unfolded it. For a moment he scrutinized the page with 
a frown, and then began to read — 

“Mr. Charles Brierly: I don’t know why I should be 
drawn into your love affair any further, and I have said 
my last word about your friend. Miss G — . One would 
think that the proofs you have already had would be 
more than enough. She is not the first woman, with a 
prettv face and an innocent way, who has fooled and 
tricked a man. Why don’t you ask her and have it out? 
You’ll find she can scratch as well as the rest of her sex. 
One word more, when you have had it out with her. 


116 


THE LAST STROKE 


beware! Especially if she weeps and forgives you. 
Remember the ‘woman scorned.’ 

“Don’t write me again. I shall not answer any more 
questions. And, remember your promise, don’t let her 
dream that you ever heard of me. I shall feel safer. So 
good-bye and good luck. Yours, J. B.” 

Ferrars folded up this strange letter slowly, saying: 

“This document has no date and no postoffice address.” 
He held it in his hand for a moment in silence, looking 
at it thoughtfully, then. “I should like to retain this,” 
he said, looking at Brierly, “as one of the documents in 
the case.” And as Brierly silently bowed his assent, he 
added: “Have you found an opinion concerning this 
letter?” 

“I believe it is a shameful trick,” declared Robert 
Brierly, hotly. “An attempt on the part of some person 
or persons to injure Miss Grant, who stands to me as a 
sister henceforth. If I am any judge of womankind, she 
is as good as she is lovely, and I believe that she mourns 
my brother’s awful death as only a good, true and loving 
woman can. I wish you could and would say the same, 
Mr. Ferrars.” 

“I can say that you have said the only right and manly 
thing, in my opinion. You don’t want to know what I 
think, however, but what can be done? And, first, this 
affair must be kept between ourselves. This letter makes 
it all the more important. If it has been put here to mis- 
lead justice and to make trouble, perfect silence regard- 
ing it will be the most baffling and perplexing course we 
can pursue. And it may lead to some further manifesta- 


THE LAST STROKE 


117 


tion. The word must go out at once that Mr. Brierly 
has desired these rooms closed for the present, with 
everything to remain untouched. Meantime I consider 
that we have got our hands upon some strong clues, if 
we can find the way to develop them aright. Don’t ask 
me anything more now, genilemen. I want time to study 
over this morning’s discoveries, and, Mr. Brierly, it is 
time you breakfasted.” 

At this moment there came a quick tap at the door, and 
Mrs. Fry’s voice was heard without. At a signal from 
Ferrars, Doctor Barnes opened the door. 

“Gentlemen,” began the little woman in eager explan- 
ation, “I don’t want to interrupt.” 

“We are just going,” said the doctor, politely. 

“Oh, well, I got to thinking, after I went down stairs, 
and it came into my mind that I didn’t see Miss Grant’s 
picture on the top of the writing desk up here. Mr. Brierly 
had had it three weeks or so, and he showed it to 
me himself and says, 'Mrs. Fry, this picture is in its proper 
place here in my room. You and Nellie both know and 
love Miss Grant and so I may tell you that she is to be 
my wife some day, God willing.’ ” The woman’s voice 
broke at the last word, and Robert Brierly made a quick 
stride back toward the desk. But Ferrars said, uncon- 
cernedly, “Thank you, Mrs. Fry ; we shall find it in the 
desk, I fancy,” and then he explained to her Mr. Brierly’s 
desire that the rooms remain closed to all curious visitors 
until further notice, adding that they would close the out- 
side blinds, and be down stairs directly; then shutting the 


118 


THE LAST STROKE 


door upon the woman’s retreating form, and softly turn- 
ing the key in the lock again, Ferrars went to the desk, 
and catching back Brierly’s extended hand, said, “Wait!” 

He came closer to the desk and bent to scan at the top 
shelf. 

“Look,” he said after a moment, “do you see that line, 
close to the back, where the dust is not cpiite so apparent? 
The picture has been taken from there.” He took hold 
of the back and pulled the desk from the wall a few 
inches. 

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “I thought so!” and dropping 
upon one knee he drew out two pieces of card board. “I 
thought so,” he repeated, as he arose, and there was a 
steely gleam in his eyes as he held out to view the two 
halves of a fine picture of Hilda Grant, torn across the 
middle as if by a firm and vindictive hand. “This helps 
me,” he said, with a touch of triumph in his voice. “It 
helps me more than all the rest.” 

He made a movement as if to put the picture together 
with the letter which he had put down upon the desk- 
top, into a capacious inner pocket, and then suddenly 
withdraw his hand and bestowed them elsewhere, for, 
thrust into that safe side pocket, so convenient and capa- 
cious, was a folded newspaper, from which a “clipping” 
had been carefully cut, a paper which he had found in the 
rack, near the desk, and had secreted, as he thought, 
unseen, at his earliest opportunity. 


CHAPTER XL 


DETAILS. 

During the day that followed the discoveries in Mrs. 
Fry’s upper chamber, Mr. Ferrars did a variety of things 
that surprised the brother of Charles Brierly; yes, and 
the doctor as well, and he said some things that seemed 
quite incomprehensible. For the detective was somewhat 
given to half uttered soliloquy when he knew himself 
among “safe” people, and could therefore afford to relax 
his guard. Likewise he failed to say the things which 
Brierly, at least, expected, and much desired to hear. 

His first movement after the three had breakfasted, 
was to ask for the keys of the cottage chambers, for they 
had been handed over to Brierly somewhat ostentatiously 
in the presence of Mrs. Fry and at the foot of the cottage 
stairs, by the doctor. 

“I want to spend another half hour in those rooms,” 
he said, “and to so leave them that I shall know at once 
if a human foot has so much as crossed the threshold.” 

This was all the explanation he chose to make then or 
upon his return. 

Indeed, when he came back he spent all of the remain- 
ing time until high noon, smoking alone upon the doc- 
tor’s neat lawn and along the shady side of the house, 
(119) 


120 


THE LAST STROKE 


excusing himself and guarding against possible intrusion, 
by remarking that he felt the need of a little solitary self- 
communion. 

At luncheon the question of the burial was discussed, 
and afterward Brierly announced his intentions to call 
upon Miss Grant, if the doctor thought her able to rceive 
him. 

“I have told Mrs. Marcy to keep the gossips out,” 
Doctor Barnes said gravely, “she’s too sensitive, Miss 
Grant I mean, to hear unfeeling or curious discussions 
of the case. But a friend who is in sympathy — that’s 
another thing. She’ll be better with such company than 
alone.” 

When Brierly had set out, the detective threw away his 
after dinner cigar. 

“Were you called to see the little lady who was taken 
ill here yesterday, after the close of the inquest?” he 
asked carelessly. “I forgot to inquire, in my desire to 
keep Brierly occupied.” 

The doctor shook his head. “I fancy she only needed 
time to recover from the effect of her gruesome position. 
It was a blunder, putting her in plain sight of that 
shrouded corpse. Those little blue eyed women are a 
masses of nerves and fine sensibilities — often. I don’t 
see how it came about.” 

“If you mean the 'blunder’ of putting those ladies 
where they were, it was I who blundered. I arranged to 
place them there.” 


THE LAST STROKE 


121 


“You!” the doctor’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. 
“Then I retract. It was I who have blundered.” 

“Um — I am not so sure,” Ferrars replied slowly and 
then the subject as by mutual consent was ignored 
between them. Ferrars, who seemed for the time at least 
to have done his thinking, wrote several letters at the 
doctor’s desk, and then prepared to go out. 

“I asked permission to call and inquire after Mrs. 
Jamieson’s health, yesterday,” he said to the doctor, “and 
as she has not required your services she may be able to 
receive me now.” 

“There is another Esculapius in Glenville,” reminded 
Doctor Barnes. 

“So I have heard; but the lady is a person of good 
taste. She would have called you in if anyone.” He 
bowed and went out with a gleam of humor in his eyes. 

“It’s sometimes hard to guess what Ferrars means 
when he speaks with that queer look and tone,” mused 
the doctor. “And who would have thought he would 
care or think of a formal call like this just now! And 
yet, that little woman is pretty enough to attract a man. 
I’m sure; and a detective may be as susceptible, I sup- 
pose, as another.” 

Ferrars waited for a few moments in the reception 
room of the Glenville House, and was then conducted to 
the pretty suite occupied by Mrs. Jamieson. He found 
her half reclining in a long, low chair, with her friend, 
Mrs. Arthur, still in attendance. She wore a soft, loose 
robe of black, with billowy gauze-like ruffles, and floating 


122 


THE LAST STROKE 


ribbons of the same sable hue, relieved only by a knot of 
purple wood violets at her throat. Her face was very 
pale and her eyes, with their changing lights of grayish 
green and glinting blue, looking larger and deeper than 
usual because of the dark shadows beneath them, and 
the waves of her plentiful fair hair falling low and loose 
upon her forehead. 

She welcomed her visitor with a faint half smile, and 
thanked him again for his kindness of the pre- 
vious day. She blamed herself for her want of nerve and 
courage. She inquired after Miss Grant and expressed 
her sympathy for the bereaved girl, and her desire to 
see her again, to know her, and serve her if possible; 
she had shown herself so brave, yet so womanly that day 
— And then the little lady told of her encounter with Miss 
Grant in the unfortunate character of messenger or 
bearer of bad news. She was glad there would be no 
lack of staunch friends to support the sweet girl in her 
time of need and trouble, and she finished by sending a 
pretty message to Hilda, and then without further ques- 
tion or comment concerning the murder or the progress 
of the case, she let the talk slip into the hands of her 
friend and leaned back in her chair like one too weak for 
further effort, seeing which Ferrars soon withdrew. 

“You will not consider this an example of my usual 
hospitality, I trust,” Mrs. Jamieson said, as he bent over 
her chair to say farewell. “I fear I was not wise in refus- 
ing to let them call a physician, but I do dread being in 
the hands of a doctor. I shall be pleased to hear how 


THE LAST STROKE 


123 ■ 


this sad case progresses, Mr. Grant, and by the by, has 
anything new occurred since the inquest? Any new wit- 
nesses or discoveries of any sort?” 

But Ferrars shook his head and murmuring something 
about time being short, and not taxing her good nature 
and strength further, he bowed low and went away. 

“It’s very good of her,” he mused, as he went, “to take 
such kindly interest in my supposed relative. Miss Grant. 
But she certainly showed scant interest in the chief actor 
in the drama, my friend Brierly.” 

The candles had just been lighted that evening, and 
Ferrars was once more waiting at the doctor’s desk, while 
Brierly, pale and heavy-eyed, lounged by the long win- 
dow near, when Doctor Barnes came in, hat in hand. 

“As you felt some interest in Mrs. Jantieson’s selection 
of a physician this morning,” the latter said, “I will 
inform you that I have just been summoned to see that 
lady, professionally, of course,” he added, as if by an 
afterthought and smiling slightly. 

“Thank you. Mrs. Jamieson has vindicated my belief 
in her good judgment,” replied Ferrars, and then he 
wheeled about in his chair, and put out a detaining hand. 

“Don’t think I doubt your reserve, doctor,” he went 
on, “when I ask you to avoid or evade, if needful, any 
discussion of this affair of ours. That is, avoid giving 
any information, be it ever so trivial.” Fie shot a quick 
glance toward Brierly, and met the doctor’s eye for one 
swift momentary glance. 

“My visit will be purely professional, and doubtless 


124 


THE LAST STROKE 


brief,” was the reply, as the speaker passed from the 
room, and Ferrars smiled, knowing that his friend under- 
stood the meaning behind the half jesting words. 

A moment later Robert Brierly arose, yawned, and 
crossed the room to take up his hat. 

“This inaction is horrible,” he said, drearily. “I must 
get out. I wish I had walked down with Barnes. Won’t 
you come out with me, Mr. Ferrars?” 

The detective dipped his pen in the sand box and arose 
quickly. Then when he had found his hat, and had low- 
ered the light over the writing table, he put a hand upon 
the other’s shoulder. 

“Fll go out with you, of course, Brierly,” he said, and 
there was a world of sympathy, as well as complete 
understanding in his tone. “But first, I want to ask you 
to show yourself as little as possible upon the streets, for 
a few days to come at least, and then only in the company 
of the doctor or myself, and not to go out evenings at 
all, unless similarly attended. It will be irksome, I know, 
but I believe it important, and I must ask this of you, too, 
without explanation, for the present at least.” 

The young man looked at him for a moment, earnestly 
and in silence. 

“Do you ask this for reasons personal to myself, or 
because it seems to you to be for the interest of the 
investigation?” he asked slowly. 

Ferrars smiled. “You’re as able to take care of your- 
self as any man I know, Brierly,” he said, with frank con- 
viction. ^Tt’s for the interest of the case that we — and 


THE LAST STROKE 


125 


especially you — keep ourselves as much aloof as possible 
from questions and curiosity. There ‘s another reason 
which I cannot give just yet.” 

“As you will. I have put myself and my brother’s 
vindication in your Hands, Mr. Ferrars, and I shall do 
nothing, be sure, to hinder your progress.” As they 
passed out Brierly paused under the shadow of the porch. 
“May I ask if you have put the same embargo upon Miss 
Grant?” he questioned. 

“I have, yes. Glenville must know what we wish it to 
know, and not a syllable more.” 

“Ah! I like that.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it sounds as if you had really found the end of 
your thread here.” 

“Oh, yes. The beginning is here. Not of the case, 
mind; only of the clues. But heaven only knows where 
it may lead us before we find the end.” 

“What matters,” said the brother of Charles Brierly, 
with a heavy sigh, “so long as it brings us to the truth!” 


CHAPTER XII. 


“ FBRRARS-GRANT.” 

On the fourth day after Charles Brierly’s untimely 
death his body was taken to the city and laid beside his 
parents in the beautiful cemetery where love and grief 
had already prepared for him and his, a place of final rest. 

News of the burial had been sent ahead, and a crowd 
of friends had assembled at the home of their father’s 
oldest friend and family lawyer, where the body was 
received as that of a son, and the last rites of affection and 
respect were performed by the venerable rector who had 
seen the brothers grow from boys to men. 

Doctor Barnes and Hilda Grant, with Mrs. Marcy as 
chaperone, accompanied the sad hearted brother upon 
this journey, and they were somewhat surprised when 
Ferrars, whom they had thought must go with them in 
has character of sole relative to the young lady, 
explained that his presence in Glenville just then was 
essential to the success of the work he had been called 
there to do. 

“There are so many little things which I want to learn,” 
he said. “In fact, I must know Glenville much better 
before I can go far in my search, and during your a1)scnce 
I can find the time for making many new acquaintances 
(126) 


THE LAST STROKE 127 

and I mean to begin by cultivating your friend Doran, 
doctor.” 

They were gone three days, and when they returned 
they were but a party of three. “Poor Charlie Brierly,” 
as his friends in the city had already begun to call the 
dead, lay in his last, quiet earthly home, and Robert had 
remained in the city. 

“To settle up his brother’s affairs, and put the matter 
of his death into the hands of the detectives.” At least 
this is what Mr. Doran informed one of the loungers who, 
seeing the return of the doctor and the two ladies, had 
remarked upon Brierly’s absence. 

“Of course he’ll have to come back here,” Doran had 
further added. “He ain’t touched the things in his 
brother’s rooms yet, they say. But they’ll wait, better 
than the other business.” 

“Umph!” the villager sniffed. “He’s let three days 
slip by without makin’ much of a stir. Why on earth 
ain’t they had one o’ them fellers down here long before 
this? They ain’t seemed to hurry much.” 

“Well, you see, at first ’twas more than half believed 
that the shooting must have been by accident; and then, 
this is just between you and me, Jones; didn’t you ever 
think that even after that jury’s verdict, and the doctor’s 
testimony, they. Doc. and the brother, might have wanted 
to make sure, by a sort of private and more thorough 
investigation of the wound, eh?” 

“By crackey! Now that you speak of it, I heard Mason 


128 


THE LAST STROKE 


say’t they was up an’ movin’ round at the doctor’s that 
live long night! Yes, sir, I reckon you’ve hit it!” 

“My!” mused Samuel Doran as he moved away from 
the gossip. “They bite at my yarns like babies on a 
teethin’ ring. Doc. knows .his fellow critters, sure 
enough, and my work’s laid out for me, I guess.” 

For Doran, after due consultation, and upon the doc- 
tor’s voucher, had been taken a little way into the confi- 
dence of the three men, and Ferrars began to foresee in 
him a reliable helper. 

The above brief conversation took place between 
Doran and Mr. Jones, professional depot-lounger and 
occasional worker at odd jobs, while the doctor was put- 
ting Hilda and Mrs. Marcy into a waiting carriage, and 
when he had seen it drive away up town, Doran came 
forward and addressed him in a tone quite audible to the 
bystanders. 

“You see, I didn’t forget the carriage, Doc. Hope 
Miss Grant ain’t none the worse for her sad sort of jour- 
ney.” And then as the two walked away from the plat- 
form together, and he saw the doctor’s eyes glancing 
from side to side, Doran went on. “Looking for Mr. 
Grant, Doc? Well, I guess you won’t see him; not 
before supper-time, anyhow. Fact is, I guess he’s sort 
of fancy struck on that pretty-faced widow down at the 
Glenville House, and he’s taken her out behind my greys 
this afternoon. I don’t know as I blame him any; she is 
a dainty little wid.” 

The doctor stared at him in amazement at his first 


THE LAST STROKE 


129 


words, and then broke into a hearty laugh over the last. 

“Upon my word, Doran, you will be able to write a 
new dictionary of abbreviations some day! Doran’s 
Original! A dainty wid. is very good in its way; only, is 
she a Avid.’?” 

“That’s what they say at the Glenville. Widow and 
rich.” 

At the next corner Doran halted. “Have to tear 
myself away,” he said, amiably. “See you later,” and the 
two men separated. 

“Well, old man, how have you fared during the lull in 
your business?” asked Doctor Barnes as his man came 
to meet him. “You don’t look overworked.” 

“I ain’t been, neither, sah. Your Mr. Grant or Fer- 
rars, I ain’t rightly got his name, I guess, sir, he ’pears 
ter like the cooks down to the Glenville better than me. 
I ain’t had no bother with him since you left, sir, ’cept to 
make up his bed.” 

“I know. He has found some friends there, I fancy, 
Jude. Any news or messages?” and the doctor became 
at once absorbed in his neglected business. 

Ferrars made his appearance at “supper time,” as 
Doran had described the evening meal, and the two men 
had much to discuss. When Jude had placed the last 
dishes, and retired, the detective, who thus far had been 
listening to the doctor’s account of the journey and the 
sad funeral obsequies, looked up and said: “I suppose 
you have heard of my wanderings, doctor, and how I 
have forsaken poor Jude? The fact is, I have found 


130 


THE LAST STROKE 


plenty of leisure, and Mrs. Jamieson, when one comes to 
know her a little, is a very ab — interesting woman. The 
sort of woman, in fact, whose society I now and then 
enjoy, I have not neglected my duty, however, but 
there is absolutely nothing new. And, by the by, I must 
see Miss Grant this evening; after that, if you are at lib- 
erty, we must have a talk. I have decided upon a change 
of plan, of which you must know.” 

He had left a note for Miss Grant, which advised her 
of his intended call as soon as she should have become 
rested and refreshed. He was glad to find her so strong 
and so composed, and he came at once to the business in 
hand. 

'‘Miss Grant,” he began, “As I said in my note, I have 
something to propose to you which has presented itself 
to me as the best course during your absence; and, to 
begin, let me ask, have you still full confidence in me, as 
a detective, and as a man whom you may trust?” 

She lifted her fine, clear eyes to his face and kept them 
there while she replied. 

“I felt that I could trust you, Mr. Ferrars, when we first 
met. There has been no change in that feeling unless it 
may be the change to a larger measure of trust and con- 
fidence.” 

“Thank you.” And now the cool detective flushed like 
a school boy. “I shall try hard to deserve your good 
opinion, and it encourages me to broach my singular pro- 
posal. I believe it will enable me to get on easier and 
with more rapidity if you will permit me to continue for 


THE LAST STROKE 


131 


an indefinite time in the role which I did not at first 
choose for myself, and I ask you if I may still remain, in 
the eyes of Glenville, as now, in the character of your 
cousin.” 

“To remain — in Glenville?” 

“When Doctor Barnes sent for me, advising me that I 
might arrive in the character of your cousin, it was of 
course with the idea that this masquerade would be a 
brief one, and it was undertaken because the doctor knew 
how it would hamper, if not reall}^ balk, my attempts to 
unravel this mystery if I were known as a detective. I 
cannot explain now, but I ask you to believe that, being 
here, I am now convinced that in laying aside this char- 
acter I should put out of my hands, my best weapon, the 
most direct means of following up and ferreting out a 
crime which I fully believe will prove to have been — that 
is if we succeed in finding out the truth — a crime with a 
far-reaching plot behind it, and the cause of which most 
of us have not even remotely dreamed of.” 

“You have said enough. All is in your hands. Be 
what you will and must, the better to prove to the world 
that Charles Brierly, my husband in the sight of heaven, 
died as he lived, an upright gentleman and martyr, and 
not the suicide or the victim of a righteous vengeance 
that most people would forever declare him if the truth 
is not made known.” 

“Understand,” he urged, “that if you consent to this, 
you, as well as myself, will have a part to play, and an 
active part, perhaps, in the drama we are about to begin. 


132 


THE LAST STROKE 


Remember, you will have to keep up the deception for 
weeks, possibly months; and to go and come at my 
desire.” 

“Do you mean,” she asked, breathlessly, “that you may 
need my help?” 

“I do need your help!” 

“Oh!” she cried, letting go her splendid self-restraint 
for the moment. “You don't know what you are doing 
for me! To be active; to do something, instead of sitting 
still and eating my heart out in suspense. It will save 
me from madness, perhaps. What could a true relative 
do for me more than you are doing and will do. You are 
my cousin!” And she put out her two hands to him 
with a new look of energy and resolve in her face. As he 
took the two slim hands in both his own, and looked in 
her eyes, suddenly so aroused and purposeful, he saw, for 
the first time, the full strength and force of will and 
nature behind that fair face and gentle bearing, the 
high spirit and courage animating the slender frame. 

“Thank you,” he said simply as he released her hands. 
“I feel that I can, indeed, rely upon you at need. You 
have the strength; can you have the patience, as well? 
At present I can tell you very little. You will have to 
take much upon trust.” 

“I have anticipated that.” 

“For example, it is my inflexible rule never to reveal 
the name of a suspected person until I have at least par- 
tial proof of guilt, enough to warrant an arrest. But you 
have a right to such confidence as I can give, and so, if 


THE LAST STROKE 


133 


you have a question to ask, and I think you have, let me 
answer it if I can.” 

“Oh, I thank you.” She came a step nearer. “I ask 
myself one question, over and over; that there was no 
guilty secret in my poor boy’s life and death, I know. 
Where, then, can be the motive?” 

“The motive. Ah! When we know that, we shall be 
at the beginning of the end of the matter. Sit down. 
Miss Grant, and I will put the case before you as I now 
see it.” 

She sank into the nearest seat without a word. 

“As to the manner of the murder,” he went on, “this 
is my conclusion. Some one, an enemy who hated or 
feared him, has informed himself of Mr. Charles 
Brierly’s habits, and made himself familiar with the 
woods along the lake shore. Your friend, I learn, has 
practiced target-shooting for some time. Have you 
ever thought that he might have had a reason for so 
doing?” 

“Good heavens! No!” 

“Well, that is only a suggestion. But this much is 
certain, the deed was premeditated, and carefully 
planned. I have satisfied myself that the assassin, 
approaching from the south, made almost the circuit of 
that long mound, after making sure that no one was near, 
in order to reach the point, scarcely twelve feet from the 
place where the body was found, from which to fire the 
fatal shot.” 

“My God!” 


134 


THE LAST STROKE 


“It was a bold venture, but not so dangerous as might 
at first appear. I find that from a point half way to the 
top of the mound one might be quite concealed from 
anyone down by the lake shore while taking a long look 
up and down the road. And, in case of approach, there 
is at the south end of the mound a clump of bushes and 
young trees, where one could easily remain concealed 
while awaiting the victim or the passing of an interloper. 
From the town to a point not far south of the knoll or 
mound, as your people call it, the ground between the 
road and lake has been partially cleared of undergrowth 
for the comfort of picnickers and fishing parties, I am 
told.” 

“Yes.” She sighed wonderingly. “But beyond that, 
a person wishing to be unseen from the lake or road 
could easily hide among the brush and trees. T believe 
all this was carefully studied, and carried out, and that, 
five minutes after the shots were fired, the slayer was on 
his way southward to some point where a confederate 
waited, with some means of conveying themselves to a 
safe distance.” 

“Ah!” she whispered. “The boat?” 

“Yes, the boat. It was a part of the plot, and rowed 
to that point by the confederate, I believe, for the pur- 
pose of misleading justice. Doran, who is an able 
helper, learned this morning that a farm hand, who was 
driving his stock across the road to drink at the lake, 
saw a man in a boat rowing up towards Glenville at half 
past seven that morning.” 


THE LAST STROKE 


135 


*‘Oh! And can you follow them? Is the trail strong 
enough?’^ 

‘T think so. And there are other clues. There is 
much to be done here in Glenville, first of all. At the 
inquest the testimony was purposely left vague and 
uncertain at some points.” 

“And why?” 

“Because, somewhere, not far away, there is a person 
who is watching developments, and who may leave some 
track unsevered, if he can be made to think we are off 
the scent. I mean to know my Glenville very well before 
I leave it, and some of its people, too. And here you 
can help me as . soon as you are strong enough.” 

“I am strong enough now. What more can I do?” 

“You remember the foolish boy and his fright when 
questioned?” 

“Of course.” 

“Well, as his teacher, can you not win his confidence 
until his fear is overcome? That boy has not told all he 
knows.” 

“He is very dull, I fear. He said he saw a ghost.” 

“Well, we must know the nature of that ghost, and 
why it has closed his lips so effectually. Seriously I 
hope much from that lad.” 

“Then, be sure, I will do my best.” 

“You see, I am taking you at your word. And there’s 
one more thing. I have been told that strangers go 
oftenest to the Glenville, when in town. Now it 
behooves me to know the latest comers, and the new- 


136 


THE LAST STROKE 


comers there, and chance having given me opportunity 
to break the ice by being polite to Mrs. Jamieson, I have 
improved the moments. I don’t mean that I am study- 
ing the lady for any sinister purpose, but one can see 
that she is quite a social leader in the house, and through 
her i have already come to know several of the other 
inmates. Mrs. Jamieson very much desires to know 
you, and if you will allow her to call, as under the cir- 
cumstances she desires to do, and if you will return that 
call — in short put yourself upon the footing of an 
acquaintance — it will really help me greatly.” 

For a long moment Hilda did not speak, then “I will 
do as you wish, of course,” she said, but the note of 
eager readiness had gone out of her voice. ^‘But I can- 
not even think of that woman without living over again 
our first meeting and the awful blow her news dealt me. 
Will I ever outlive the hurt of it?” 

“It hurt her, too; I am sure of that. She is a keenly 
sensitive woman. She went from your school room 
really ill, so her friend has told me.” 

“I can well believe that. She looked ill when she 
came to me. And who can wonder?” her tone softening. 
“Mrs. Jamieson is certainly kind, and why should we 
not be friends? She is a lady, refined and charming. 
Don’t think me unreasonable, Mr. Ferrars. I shall be 
pleased to receive her, of course.” 

“Thank you. And remember, that for the present 
Francis Ferrars becomes Ferris — Ferris Grant. You’ll 
not forget your part!” 


THE LAST STROKE 


137 


“I will not forget,” she answered. And when he was 
gone she smiled a sad little womanly smile. “After all, 
a detective is but a man; and that petite, soft-spoken, 
dainty blonde woman is just the sort to fascinate a big- 
h^prted, strong man Jike Francis Ferrars.” 


CHAPTER XIH. 


“THE LAKE COUNTY HERALD.” 

^‘Has Doran been here, doctor?” 

These were the detective’s first words when he entered 
the sanctum upon his return from the Marcy cottage, 
and before his host could do more than shake his head, 
Ferrars dropped into a seat beside him and went on in a 
lower tone. 

‘The fact is, doctor. I’ve got myself interested in a 
thing which, after all, may lead me astray. Do you take 
the ‘Lake County Herald?’ ” 

“Upon my word!” ejaculated the doctor. “I do; yes. 
Want to peruse the sheet?” 

“I don’t suppose you file them?” went on Ferrars. 

“File the ‘Herald!’ No, I fire them, or Jude does.” 

“I wish you had not. The fact is I want very much to 
get hold of a copy dated November last, the 27th. Do 
you recall the bit of paper I took from Charles Brierly’s 
desktop to demonstrate that something had been hastily 
pulled from the letter file by that clever boy of whom 
Mrs. Fry could tell so little?” 

“Yes; surely.” The doctor now began to look seri- 
ously interested. 

(138) 


THE LAST STROKE 


139 


“Well, the stolen paper was a newspaper clipping, cut 
from the ‘Herald’ of November 27th, last.” 

“Upon my word! But there, I won’t ask questions.” 

“You need not. Did you not observe me looking 
over the papers in the rack?” 

“Yes.” 

“Possibly you saw me with a paper in my hand soon 
after?” 

The doctor stared and shook his head. “I’ve no eye 
for slight-of-hand,” he grumbled. 

“Decidedly not, for I folded up that paper and thrust 
it in a breast pocket before your very eyes. I kept that 
tiny bit, too, which I picked up on my forefinger. It 
fitted into a column from which a piece had been cut, 
and that’s how I know that the stolen article came from 
that paper. Very simple, after all, you see!” 

“For you, yes.” 

“The fact that the clipping was thought worth steal- 
ing, makes me fancy it worth a perusal. I tried for it 
here in town, in a quiet way, but failed. Then I appealed 
to Doran, and he has written to Lake, to the editor, 
whom he happens to know.” 

“It would be hard to find hereabouts a man of any 
importance whatever whom Sam Doran does not know. 
He grew up in Lake County, and has held half the 
offices in the county’s gift.” 

“There may be a clue for us in that clipping. I dis- 
covered another thing in that room. The dead man 
wrote, or began, a letter to his brother. I learned this 


140 


THE LAST STROKE 


from a scrap, dated and addressed, which I found in the 
waste basket, and I am led to believe the letter was 
rewritten, or rather begun anew, and sent, from the fact 
that a fresh blotter showed a fragment of Brierly’s name, 
and the city address. That letter, if mailed, must have 
passed him as he came down. Did he mention getting 
it?” 

Doctor Barnes shook his head. 

“He said nothing about such a letter,” he replied. 
“Does he know about this — this newspaper business?” 

“Not a word. No one knows it but yourself. If it 
should prove to be a clue in my hands, it may be better, 
it will be better, I am sure, to keep it at present between 
us two. I think, however, that I may decide to show 
Miss — my cousin — that anonymous letter, and tell her 
something about that mysterious boy and his visit to her 
lover’s rooms.” And then Ferrars turned from this 
subject to explain to the doctor his present plans. How 
he had determined to continue his masquerade, and to 
remain for a time in Glenville; and, though Mrs. Jamie- 
son’s name was not uttered, the doctor found himself 
wondering, as had Hilda Grant, if the detective had not 
found the place attractive for personal, as well as busi- 
ness reasons; and if a detective’s heart must needs be of 
adamant after all. 

Next morning Samuel Doran, who knew the detective 
only as “Hilda Grant’s cousin and a right good fellow,” 
drove ostentatiously to the door to take “Mr. Grant” for 
a drive. 


THE LAST STROKE 


141 


‘TVe had a line from Joe Howlett,” he began the 
moment they were upon the road. “He was just setting 
out for a run out of town but he says he told the boys to 
look up that paper and send it along. So, I guess we’ll 
see it soon, if it’s in existence.” And Doran chirrupped 
to his team and promptly changed the subject. He did 
not know why this man beside him so much wished to 
obtain a six-months-old copy of a country newspaper, 
and he did not trouble himself to worry or wonder. 
“It was none of his business,” he would have said if ques- 
tioned, and Samuel Doran attended to his own business 
exclusively and was by so much the more a reliable 
helper when, his aid being asked, the business of his 
neighbor became his own. 

Ferrars was learning to know this man, and he knew 
that the time might soon come when Doran would be his 
closest confidant and strongest assistant in Glenville. 

“We look for Brierly in a day or two,” the detective 
said, casually, as they bowled along. “He will bring 
a professional gentleman with him,” and he turned his 
head and the eyes of the two met. Ferrars had found 
that Doran could extract much meaning from a few 
words, at need. 

“Something in the detective line, for instance? ’S that 
it?” 

“That explanation will do for Glenville, Doran.” 

“Cert. Glenville ought to know it, too. We’ve been 
thinking ’twas about time one of ’em appeared,” and 
Doran grinned. 


142 


THE LAST STROKE 


Ferrars smiled, well satisfied. He knew that the dig- 
nified family lawyer and friend,, who was coming to Gleii- 
ville with Robert Brierly by his own desire, would be 
promptly accepted as the tardy and eagerly looked for 
“sleuth” who would “solve the mystery” at once and 
with the utmost ease. 

And that is what happened. 

The two men arrived a day earlier than they had been 
expected, and the moment Robert Brierly found him- 
self alone with Ferrars he drew from his pocket a letter, 
saying, as he unfolded it with gentle, careful touch : 

“This letter, Mr. Ferrars, is the last written me by my 
brother. It was in the city, passing me on the way, 
before I had arrived here, and I found it, among others, 
at the office. I have not spoken of it even to the doc- 
tor. Read it, please.” 

Ferrars took the letter and read. 

My Dear Rob.: Since writing you, I have found in 
an old newspaper, quite by accident, something which 
has almost set my head to spinning. I know what you 
will say to that, old boy. It brings up something out of 
the past ; something of which I may have to tell you and 
which should have been told you before. It’s the only 
thing, concerning myself that is, which you do not know 
as well as I, and if I have not confided this to you, it was 
because I almost feared to. But then, why try to explain 
and excuse on paper when we are to meet, please God, 
so soon. Brother mine, what if that flood tide which 
comes, they say, to each, once in life, was on its way to 
you and to me? Well, it shall not separate us, Rob.; 
not by my will. But stop. I shall grow positively orac- 


THE LAST STROKE 


143 


iilar if I keep on, (no one ever could understand an 
oracle, you know) and so, till we meet, adieu. 

BROTHER CHARLIE. 

When Ferrars had read this strange missive once, he 
sat for a moment as if thinking, and then deliberately 
re-read it slowly, and with here and there a pause, when 
at last he handed it back to Brierly, he asked: 

^'Do you understand that letter?” 

“No more than I do the riddle of the sphinx, Fer- 
rars,” he leaned forward eagerly as he put a question, 
and his eyes were apprehensive, though his voice was 
firm. “Do you connect that letter in any way with my 
brother’s death?” 

For a moment the detective was silent, thinking of 
the newspaper, and the missing clipping. Then he 
replied slowly as if considering between the words. 

“Of course it’s possible, Mr. Brierly, but as yet I can- 
not give an opinion. If you will trust that letter to me 
for a few days, however, perhaps I may see more clearly. 
It’s a surprise. I’ll admit. I had fully decided in my 
own mind, that howsoever much the murderer may have 
premeditated and planned, his victim was wholly una- 
ware of an en — of his danger.” 

“You were about to say, of an enemy!” 

“Yes. It is what I have been saying before seeing 
that letter.” He put out his hand and as Brierly placed 
the letter in it he added, “Let us not discuss this further. 
Does your friend, Mr. Myers, know of it?” 

“Not a word.” 


144 


THE LAST STROKE 


“Then, for the present, let it rest between us.” 

Two days after this interview, Doran dropped in at 
the doctor’s office, and before he left had managed to put 
a newspaper, folded small, into the hands of the detective, 
quite unperceived by the other occupants of the room. 
For, while since Brierly’s return, accompanied by his 
friend, these two had occupied together the rooms at 
Mrs. Fry’s, the doctor’s cottage was still headquarters 
for them all, while Ferrars now had solitary possession 
of the guest chamber, formerly assigned to Brierly. 

Mr. Myers was a shrewd lawyer, as well as a faithful 
family friend. He had felt, from the first, that there 
was mystery as well as crime behind the death of Charles 
Brierly, who had been near and dear to him, as dear as 
an own son, for the two families had been almost as one 
ever since John Myers and the elder Brierly, who had 
been school friends and fellow students, finally entered 
together the career of matrimony. 

There had been no children in the Myers homestead, 
and the two lads soon learned to look upon the Myers 
house as their second home, and “Uncle” John Myers 
had ranked, in their regard, only second to their well 
beloved father. So that when the young men were left 
alone, in a broken and desolate home, that other door 
opened yet wider, and claimed them by right of affection. 

Mr. Myers had been taken to the scene of the murder, 
had visited Hilda Grant, and, by his own desire, had 
examined the books, papers and manuscripts in Charles 
Brierly’s rooms, and on the day of Doran’s call, a longer 


THE LAST STROKE 


145 


drive than he had yet taken liad been arranged. He 
was going, accompanied by Brierly and driven by 
Doran, to look at the skiff, still unclaimed and waiting 
upon the lake shore below the town. 

Ferrars, much to Doran’s regret, had declined to 
accompany them from the first, and when he found him- 
self in possession of the coveted newspaper he joined the 
others in their desire that Doctor Barnes should take the 
fourth seat in the light surrey behind Doran’s pet span; 
and the day being fine and business by no means press- 
ing, that gentleman consented. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A GHOST. 

When Ferrars found himself alone he lost no time in 
locking his chamber door and beginning his study of 
ancient news. 

Taking the newly arrived paper from beneath his pil- 
low, where he had hastily thrust it, he spread out the 
mutilated copy beside it and speedily located the clip- 
ping which should explain, or interpret, Charles Brierly’s 
last letter. 

Putting the perforated paper over the other, as the 
quickest means to the end, he drew a pencil mark around 
the paragraph which appeared in the vacant space, and 
then, without pausing to read it, he reversed the two 
sheets and repeated the operation. 

This done, he took up the marked paper and sat down 
to read and digest the secret. 

“It won’t take long to tell which side of this precious 
square of paper contains the thing I want, I fancy,” he 
meditated, as he smoothed out the sheet. 

The printed paragraph outlined by his pencil was 
hardly three inches in length, and he read it through 
with a growing look of comprehension upon his face. 
“I wonder if that can be it?” he said to himself at the end. 


(146) 


THE LAST STROKE 


147 


And then he slowly turned the paper and read the 
pencil-marked lines upon the other side. 

When he had perused the brief lines over, his brow 
knit itself into a frown, and he reread them, with his face 
still darkened by it. Then he uttered a short laugh, and 
laid the paper down across his knee. 

“1 wonder if the other fellow will know which, side was 
which!” he muttered. “Fm blest if I do!” He sat for 
half an hour, with the paper upon his knee, looking off 
into space, and wrinkling his, brow in thought. Then 
he got up and put the two papers carefully away. 

‘T’ni very thankful that I did not speak of this to 
Brierly,” he thought as he went out and locked his door 
behind him. “It would be only another straw, yes, a 
whole weight of them, added to his load of doubt and 
trouble.” 

The two paragraphs read as follows, the first being an 
advertisement, with the usual heading, and in solid non- 
pareil type: 

“Charlie: A. has found you out. He will not give me 
your address. Be on guard at all times for there is 
danger. All will be forgiven if you will come back ; and 
F. will help you to avoid A. You are not safe where 
you are. The city is better and we cannot feel at ease 
knowing the risk you are running. At least stay where 
you are. Your brother or some friend ought to know. 
For your own sake do not treat this warning as you did 
A.’s other threat. He means it. Still at G. street. 

“ M.” 

The second paragraph was in the form of a would-be 
facetious editorial paragraph, and ran thus: 


148 


THE LAST STROKE 


“Not to have a fortune is sad enough, but to go up 
and down in the land a millionaire and never know it, is 
wretchedness, indeed. Many are the foreign fortunes 
seeking American heirs, if we are to believe the adver- 
tising columns ; and the heirs seeking fortunes are as the 
sands of the sea in number. 

“There have been the Frayles, and the Jans, and a 
long retinue of lost heirs to waiting estates, and now it 
appears that the great Paisley fortune rusts in idleness 
and shamelessly accumulates, while the heirs of a certain 
Hugo Paisley, an Englishman who was last heard from 
in the Canadas many years ago, are much to be desired 
now that the home supply of English bred Paisley stock 
is run out.” 

There was more to this screed below the line which 
marked the lower end of the clipping, but it contained 
no further reference to the Paisleys ; merely dilating in a 
would-be humorous manner upon the degenerating influ- 
ence of the foreign legacy upon the American citizen. 
But the advertisement upon the other side had been cut 
out in full, and exactly at the beginning and end. 

It was puzzling and disappointing in the extreme. 
Ferrars had really looked upon this cut newspaper as his 
strongest card, when he should have found the missing 
fragment, and now — ! He thought and wondered, and 
re-read letter and clipping again and again, but to no 
good purpose, and at last he locked away the puzzling 
documents and went out to make a morning call upon 
Mrs. Jamieson. 

That evening he talked, first with Robert Brierly, and 
then with the family lawyer, and to both he put the same 


THE LAST STROKE 


149 


direct questions, “What could they tell him of the early 
history of the Brierlys? of Mrs. Brierly’s family and 
ancestors? Had they any relatives in England or Scot- 
land, say? Were there any old family papers in the 
possession of either? 

Of Robert Brierly he also asked if, to his knowledge, 
his brother had had, at any time, a love affair; not seri- 
ous, but amusing, perhaps; a student’s flirtation, even. 
Also, when and for how long, if at all, had the brothers 
been separated since their school days? 

And Brierly had replied that he knew very little of his 
father’s ancestors, beyond the fact that his grandfather 
Brierly was a Virginia gentleman, and his father an only 
son. The family, so far as he knew, had been Virginians 
for three generations, and what more pray could an 
American ask? As for his mother, she had been a Miss 
Louise Cotterrell of Baltimore, her father a railway mag- 
nate of renown. In her desk, very much as she had left 
it, in a closed-up room in the old house, were bundles 
of old letters and ancient family papers, so his father had 
once told him; he had meant to examine them some 
time, but had not yet so done. If Ferrars desired it he 
would do this soon. 

So far as his dead brother was concerned, Brierly was 
sure there had never been a love affair of even the most 
ephemeral sort. In fact, Charles had always been shy of 
women, and used to shirk his social duties as much as 
possible. Hilda Grant was, without doubt, his first and 
only love. As to their separations, there had been sev- 


150 


THE LAST STROKE 


eral. To begin, Charlie had been in college a year after 
he (Robert) had been graduated, and the following year, 
‘'because the boy had seemed run down and in need of 
rest and change,” he had spent a few months upon a 
ranch in Wyoming, with a college friend. Then the two 
had made their European tour, and since, their only long 
separations had been when his work, as journalist, had 
taken him away from the city, sometimes for weeks, until 
Charlie had taken this school, as a relief from his theolog- 
ical studies. 

From Mr. Myers he could only learn that the father 
and mother of Robert and Charles Brierly were of good 
families, well known in their respective states, and both, 
he believed, “were as distinctly Americans as the war of 
the Revolution could make any American citizen of Eng- 
lish descent.” As to Charlie Brierly, Myers “didn’t 
believe the boy had ever looked twice at a girl, until he 
met with that lovely, sad-eyed sweetheart who, it was 
plain, was wearing out her heart in silent grief for him.” 

Then Ferrars went to see his supposed cousin, and 
asked her to review, mentally, her latest talks with her 
lover, and to see if she could not recall some mention of 
a discovery, a surprise, a perplexity possibly, which he 
wished to lay before his brother when he should come? 
But she shook her head sadly. 

“Was he, to her knowledge, in the habit of collecting 
odd things from the newspapers?” 

She shook her head. “He did not think very highly 
of our daily papers, and seldom if ever read beyond the 


THE LAST STROKE 


151 


news of the day. The scandals and criminal reports, he 
abhorred,” she said. 

‘'And he never alluded in any way to his family history, 
you say? Think, was there no mention of family facts 
or names?” 

She looked up after some moments of thought. ‘T 
can only recall one thing which, after all, does not con- 
tain information, except as regards the two brothers. 
Charlie was speaking of the difference of their tempera- 
ments. Robert, he said, was intensely practical, living 
in, and enjoying most, the present, and by anticipation, 
the future, while he (Charlie) was a dreamer, loving the 
past, and idealizing its history. To illustrate, he told 
how, as boys, he loved to hear his mother, whom I fancy 
he resembled, tell the tales she had heard at her grand- 
mother’s knee, of the early days, the French convents, 
the Indians, the colonists, the quaint living, the speech, 
which had for him such charms, while Robert would 
only hear of the fighting and would run away from the 
ancestral history.” 

Hilda, grown accustomed to his numerous queries, 
and scant explanations, was not surprised at Ferrars’ 
hurried departure at the end of the catechism, and he 
went back to the doctor’s cottage with just one faint little 
possibility as a reward for all this interviewing. He had 
known Mv. Myers in the city, as a successful detective 
is apt to know an able lawyer, well by reputation and 
personally a little, and he was glad to find in him a friend 
to the Brierlys, dead and living. 


152 


THE LAST STROKE 


Going back that night he said to himself : 

'Tt’s of no use to try to go on like this; a confidant 
will save me a lot of time, and Myers is the man. I 
can’t call upon the doctor; he’s got his profession, and he 
belongs here. Myers can make my business and 
Brierly’s his at need. Besides, he’s a lawyer and won’t 
be knocked entirely out by my wild theorizing, and he’s 
the one man who can get access to the ancestral docu- 
ments at need.” 

He found the lawyer still upon the doctor’s piazza, 
and without the least attempt at explanation invited him 
into his own room, where they were still closeted when, 
at midnight, Robert Brierly went slowly toward the Fry 
cottage, and the doctor, who never got his full quota of 
sleep, went yawning off to bed. 

Mr. Myers spent five days in Glenville, and then went 
back to the city, taking Robert Brierly with him, “for a 
purpose,” as he said to the doctor and Ferrars. “He can 
come back in a day or two if he chooses,” the lawyer 
added, “but in truth, Robert, unless you’re needed here, 
which I doubt, you’ll be better at work. Mr. ‘Ferris- 
Grant,’ here, will summon you at need.” 

When they were on board the train, and the lawyer 
had exhausted the morning paper, he drew close to his 
companion in that confidential attitude travellers fall into 
when they do not converse for the entertainment of all 
on board, and said: 

“Robert, I want to tell you why I so insisted upon your 
company back to the city. I want you to rouse yourself. 


THE LAST STROKE 


153 


to open your house, and when you first have looked over 
your father’s and mother’s private and business papers I 
want you to turn over to me all such as are not too 
sacred for other eyes than yours; all letters, journals — if 
there are such — all, in fact, that deal in any way with 
your family, friends and family history.” 

Brierly turned to look in his face. 

“This is some of Ferrars’ planning,” he said. 

“It is, and it has my hearty endorsement. Don’t ask 
questions. Frank Ferrars knows what he is about.” 

“No doubt of it. I only wish I did.” 

“You’ll know at the right time. And if it will be a 
comfort to you, Fll admit that, while I am to a certain 
degree in his confidence, I know no more what or whom 
he suspects than you do, for he won’t accuse without 
proof of guilt, however much he suspects or believes. 
But I know this, Ferrars is convinced that the secret of 
your brother’s death lies in the past.” 

“And in whose past?” 

“In his own, in that of your family or of Hilda Grant.” 

At the beginning of the following week Hilda Grant 
resumed her duties as school mistress, the place of 
Charles Brierly being filled by a young student from the 
city. 

Mrs. Jamieson, meantime, had called upon Hilda, the 
call had been returned, and the two were now upon quite 
a friendly and sympathetic footing; it was not long 
before the fair, black robed little figure was quite familiar 


164 


THE LAST STROKE 


to the children, to whom she gave generously sweets, 
pleasant words and smiles. 

Sometimes she met Ferrars, who would look in now 
and then at the recess or noon hour to keep up his 
cousinly character and Hilda Grant’s clear eyes saw day 
by day, the blue eyes of the pretty widow taking on a new 
look and noted that, while she was at all other times full 
of easy, charming chat, the approach of “Mr. Grant,” 
would close the pretty lips and cause the white eyelids to 
quiver and fall. 

The understanding between Hilda and the detective 
was now almost perfect and one day, Ferrars, having 
asked her if she had ever heard Mrs. Jamieson speak 
of leaving Glenville, or name her place of residence, 
Hilda replied. 

‘T have heard her express herself as well pleased with 
Glenville and I think she is in no haste to go. In truth, 
Mr. Ferrars, I am beginning to feel that, in seeing this 
lady as a means toward a selfish end, we, or I, have 
done wrong. That she is a woman of the world and has 
seen much of good society, is evident, but, she has lived, o'l 
late, a lonely and much secluded life, she tells me, 
her late husband having been a somewhat exacting 
invalid, for two years, before his death ; and forgive me 
for my great frankness, I fear that because of your 
absorption in this trouble of mine, you have not thought, 
or observed, how ‘much’ your acquaintance is becoming 
to Mrs. Jamieson. One woman can read another as a 


155 




THE LAST STROKE 

man cannot, and, I must not let you serve me at the cost 
of another’s happiness perhaps.” 

“Miss Grant, is this a riddle?” 

“Mr. Ferrars, no. Must I say plainly, then, that you 
are making yourself quite too interesting to this lady?” 

Ferrars turned his face away for a moment. Then he 
replied slowly, as if choosing his words with difficulty. 

“My friend, I believe time will prove you the mistaken 
one. I cannot take this flattering idea of yours to myself 
and venture to believe in it, but should it have the small- 
est foundation in reality, rest your conscience upon this 
candid declaration. The lady cannot feel more interest 
in my unworthy self than I in her ; from the first moment 
almost I have taken an interest in Mrs. Jamieson, such as 
I have seldom felt for any woman. Shall we let the sub- 
ject rest here? Be sure I shall not let any personal inter- 
est conflict with, or supersede, the work I came here to 
do.” 

In later years Hilda remembered these words. 

During the next two weeks, the wheels of progress so 
far as Ferrars’ work was concerned moved slowly and 
even rested, or seemed so to do. 

To be baffled in a small town, and by a small boy, was 
something new and surprising in the experience of detec- 
tive Ferrars, but so it was. Work as he would, finesse as 
he might, he could find no trace of the boy, “about half 
grown, with dark eyes and hair, freckles, a polite way 
with him and a cap pulled over his eyes,” and this was 


156 


THE LAST STROKE 


the best discription Mrs. Fry could give of the strange 
lad. 

'Hf Mrs. Fry was not the honest woman she is,” said 
the doctor, “I should call that boy a myth. How could 
he come and go so utterly unseen by all Glenville?” 

Samuel Doran, who still believed that “Mr. Grant” was 
Mr. Grant, and thought it most natural that he should 
turn his attention to the mystery surrounding the murder 
of “his cousin’s lover,” thought otherwise. 

“P’shaw!” he objected, “look at the raff of half grown 
boys racing up and down these streets from sunset to 
pretty late bed time, for kids, and how much different 
does one boy look from another, in the dark? Mrs. Fry, 
herself, only saw him, out in the twilight.” 

Ferrars reserved his criticism and opinions for the 
time. 

Doran had taken upon himself the investigation of the 
“boat puzzle,” as he called it, for the skiff remained, after 
many days, still drawn up, unmoored and unclaimed, by 
the lake shore, and at last by dint of much driving up 
and down the lake shore road and interviewing of boat 
owners, he brought to Ferrars this unsatisfactory solu- 
tion. 

Two weeks before the murder, the skiff had been 
owned by a certain Jerry Small, hunter and fisherman, 
by choice, blacksmith by profession. On a certain day, 
a man dressed in outing costume, had entered Small’s 
shop, asked about the boat, and made him such a liberal 
offer for it that Jerry had at once closed with him. The 


THE LAST STROKE 


157 


shop stood upon the outskirts of the town, and close to 
the lake. The man had said that he was coming out 
from the city in a few days, for a few weeks in the coun- 
try, meaning to secure board, if possible, near the lake 
shore. If Mr. Small did not mind, the boat might stay 
where it was until his return, the money was paid down 
and Small engaged to care for the boat. 

One day, after much agitation. Small decided that it 
must have been the day of the murder that he missed the 
boat; and one of his “kids” told him that “a gentleman 
with flannel clothes and whiskers” took away the boat 
“right early,” and neither boat nor man had ever 
re-appeared. 

Then Ferrars tore his hair and fumed at the long 
delay only to learn that Jerry Small had left his house, 
on the day after the murder to attend a sick brother and 
had returned just two days ago. 

“If s of no use,” fumed the detective to doctor Barnes, 
“I shall put a couple of fellows I know in the Jerry Small 
vicinity; ifs right in their line of work and probably 
they’ll find the man and boy together — in Timbuctoo.” 

“And you will remain in Glenville, eh?” queried the 
doctor, grinning openly. 

“Yes,” with an answering grin, which somehow the 
doctor did not quite understand. ‘T’ll stay — for a while 
longer.” 

As they sat at lunch next day a small boy brought 
Ferrars a note from the teacher. 

“Come to me at once. “H. G.” 


158 


THE LAST STROKE 


That was all it said and Ferrars lost no time in obeying 
the summons. 

“You may not see much in my news,” Flilda said, as 
she closed the door upon intruders. “But I have got 
Peter’s story out of him at last.” 

“The foolish boy? Ah, that is something after all, at 
least I hope it will prove so. Well?” 

“It was slow work, for the boy has been terribly fright- 
ened. His story is most absurd.” 

“No matter, tell it in your own way.” 

“He says still that he saw a ghost, a live ghost. 
That it arose out of the bushes and waved its arms at 
him. It was dressed “all in white like big sheets,” Peter 
said, and its face was black, with white eyes. It spoke 
to him, very low and awful,” and told him to lie down 
and put his face to the ground until it went back into its 
grave. If he looked, or even told that he had seen a ghost, 
the grave would open and swallow him too. Then it 
held up a “shiny big knife” and he tumbled over in sheer 
fright. After a long time he began to crawl toward the 
road and when he at last looked around and saw no 
ghost anywhere, he ran as fast as he could. “I am afraid,” 
Hilda added, “that you’ll think as I do, that some of the 
school boys have played the poor child a trick, or else 
that he has imagined it all. It’s too absurd to credit. 
Still, as you made a point of being told at once of what- 
ever I might learn from Peter, I kept my promise. I’m 
afraid I’ve spoiled your luncheon.” She finished with a 
wan little half smile. 


THE LAST STROKE 159 

The detective’s face was very grave and he did not 
speak at once. 

‘Ts it possible,” she ejaculated, 'That you find anything 
in the boy’s story?” 

Ferrars leaned forward and took her hand. "Miss 
Grant,” he said gravely, "I believe that poor foolish 
Peter saw Charles Brierly’s murderer.” 

He got up quickly. "Do you think the boy could be 
got to show you where he saw this apparition?” 

"I asked him that. He thinks he might dare to go if 
he were protected by 'big mans.’ ” 

"Then, arrange to leave your school for a short time, 
at, say two o’clock. I shall get Doran and his surrey. 
Have the boy ready — ” 

"Pardon me, I will say nothing to Peter. The surrey 
will be enough, he is wild to ride.” 

"That will be best then. I shall lose no time. I have 
a strong reason for wishing to see the precise place 
where this ghost appeared.” 

The sight of the surrey filled poor, foolish Peter with 
delight and he rode on in high glee, sitting 
between Hilda and Ferrars, whom he had learned to 
know, and like, and trust. When they were abreast of 
the hill Hilda bent over him. 

"Now, Peter, tell me just where you saw that ghost.” 

Instantly the boy’s face blanched and he cowered in 
his seat, but Ferrars with gentle firmness interfered. 
Peter would show him the place, and then he would 
drive away ghosts. Ghosts were afraid of grown 


160 


THE LAST STROKE 


men, he averred. And at last, hesitating much, and full 
of fears, Peter was finally persuaded, yielding at last 
to Doran’s offer to let him sit in front ‘‘and drive one of 
the horses.” 

As they reached the lower end of the Indian Mound, 
the boy’s lips began to quiver and one arm went up 
before his face, while he extended the other toward the 
thickest of brush wood before described by Ferrars. 
“That’s where,” he whimpered. “It corned up out 
there.” 

“From among the bushes?” 

“Ye-us.” 

“Did it have any feet?” 

“Oh-oh! Ony head and arms — ugh!” 

“Turn around, Doran,” said Ferrars sharply, and then 
in a lower tone to Hilda, “I shall go to the city to-night.” 

When Hilda reached her room, at the close of 'iie 
school, she found this letter awaiting her, “left,” Mrs. 
Marcy said, “ by her cousin”: 

“Dear Cousin: Even if you had been disengaged, I 
could have told you nothing except that what I have 
learned to-day impels me to look a little more closely to 
the other end of my line. For there is another end. 

“Now that I shall have the two men on duty in the 
south end of the county, and with the doctor and Doran 
alert in G — , not to mention yourself, I can go where I 
have felt that I should be for the past week or more. 
Will you keep me informed of the slightest detail that in 
any way concerns our case? And will you do me one 
individual favor? I trust Mrs. J — may not leave this 
place until I see you all again, but should she do so, will 


THE LAST STROKE 


161 


you inform me of her intention at once? You see that 
I am quite frank. I should deeply regret it, if she went 
away before I could see her again. Destroy this. 
“Yours hopefully, 

“FERRARS.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


REBELLION. 

May had passed, and June roses were in late bloom. 
The city was horrid with the warm sun-filtered air after 
a summer shower, and Robert Brierly looked pale and 
languid as he stepped from an elevator, in one of the 
great department houses wherein Ferrars had his bach- 
elor quarters, and walked slowly to his door. 

Possibly it was the warmth of a very warm June, or 
there may have been other causes. At any rate Frank 
Ferrars' face wore an almost haggard look in spite of 
the welcoming smile with which he held out his hand to 
greet his friend, for friends these two had grown to be 
during the past weeks. Friends warm and true and 
strong, in spite of the fact that the mystery surrounding 
the death of Charlie Brierly remained as much of a mys- 
tery as on the day when foolish Peter Kramer led the 
detective to the scene of his ghostly encounter. 

There were dark lines beneath the keen gray eyes, 
which, Rob Brierly had declared, “compelled a man’s 
trust,” and the smooth, shaven cheek was almost hectic, 
symptoms which, in Ferrars, denoted, among other 
things, loss of sleep. 

There was a moment of silence, after the men had 
(162) 


exchanged greetings, and it seemed, almost, that each 
Vvas covertly studying the other, and then Brierly tossed 
down his straw hat, and pulling a chair directly in front 
of that in which the detective lounged, said, abruptly: 

‘‘I shouldn’t like to quarrel with you, Ferrars, but I’ve 
something on my mind, and I’m here to have it out with 
you.” 

“Oh! Then I am in it?” the detective spoke non- 
chalantly, carelessly almost, and as the other seemed 
hesitating for a word, he added: “Give us the first round, 
old man. I’m apprehensive.” 

“FI — m! You look it. FYrrars, do you know that 
for weeks, ever since my return from Glenville, in fact, I 
have been under constant surveillance?” 

“Constant sur — . Excuse me, it’s not polite to repeat, 
Brierly, but what do you mean?” 

“What I say. It’s plain enough, somebody is watch- 
ing me, following me day and night.” 

“Pshaw! You don’t mean that, man!” 

“But I do. And that is not all,” he leaned forward 
and fixed his eyes upon those of his vis-a-vis as if watch- 
ing for the effect of his words. “I have been slowly dis- 
covering that I am being controlled — constrained — in 
many ways.” 

“Upon my word!” FYrrars was leaning back in his 
chair with his face a mask, expressing nothing but grave 
attention. “Make it plainer, Brierly.” 

“I will. I’ll make it so plain that there will be no 
room for misunderstanding. When I first came back 


164 


THE LAST STROKE 


from Gleiiville, I did not go out much, especially even- 
ings, but when I did, I began to fancy that I was spied 
upon, followed, and, after a time, I became sure of it.’’ 

‘‘Stop! When did you observe this first?” 

‘T think it was on the third night after my return. I 
was going down to the Lyceum Club rooms, when some- 
thing caused me to glance at a fellow on the other side 
of the street. You know my eyes are good!” 

“Unusually so.” 

“Well, I came out in a very short time, alone, and the 
same fellow was lounging so close to the entrance that I 
recognized him at once.” 

“A bungler, evidently.” 

“Perhaps. Well, I met two men whom I know, just 
outside, and they dragged me back with them. When 
at last I left the place, I started to walk home, and when 
I got upon the quieter streets I soon became conscious 
of someone keeping so evenly opposite me across the 
street, that I began to watch, and, as the fellow glided, 
as quickly as possible, under a street lamp, I recognized 
the same man.” 

“And you have seen him since?” 

“Himself or another. A disguise is easy at night. I 
have been watched, at any rate, and followed, again and 
again.” 

“Ah! And could you imagine his motive?” 

“No.” A look that was almost of anger crossed 
Brierly’s face. “But I have wondered if it was the same 
as yours, and Myers, when you have contrived to keep 


THE LAST STROKE 


165 


me from going here and there, or doing this or that, 
unless accompanied by one or the other of you two.” 

He bent forward again after this utterance. His eyes 
seemed to challenge an answer. 

But it did not come. Ferrars only sat with that look 
of grave inquiry still upon his face. He knew the man 
before him. 

“Ferrars,” exclaimed Brierly, when he saw that no 
answer, no defense, was to be made, “Will you look me 
in the face and say that you, and Myers also, have not 
connived to keep me under your eyes? to accompany 
me when that was practicable, and to prevent my going 
when it was not? I can recall several occasions when — ” 

He stopped short, checked in his utterance by a sud- 
den, subtle change in the face of Ferrars, who had not 
stirred so much as an eyelid, but who spoke at once 
quietly, but with a certain tone of finality, of decision. 

“Brierly, do you believe that James Myers is your 
friend, in the full meaning ok the word?” 

“I do! It is not that I doubt, or that — ” 

“And do you believe,” went on Ferrars, putting aside 
his protest with a peremptory gesture; “do you believe 
that, while thus far I seem to have failed in unravelling 
the mystery in which your brother’s death seems 
enshrouded, I have given it my most faithful study, my 
time, thought, effort and labor? That, in short, I have 
been true to your interest at all times?” 

“I know it. You have been all that and more. You 
must hear me, Ferrars. And I beg that you will answer 


166 


THE LAST STROKE 


me. Why am I watched, thwarted, cajoled? Why do 
yon and Myers fear to let me out of your sight? A few 
weeks ago you found, or seemed to find, your chief inter- 
est in Glenville; you looked for clues, for developments, 
there; and yet, you have not visited Glenville since you 
left it so suddenly. Even your own personal interest has 
not drawn you there for a single day,” 

'‘By my 'personal interest’ you mean what, Brierly?” 

“You know what I mean. Pardon me, and do not 
misunderstand me. I could not fail to see that you were 
interested in Mrs. Jamieson, and why not?” While 
Brierly spoke, the detective arose and began to pace the 
floor with lowered eyelids and slow tread. Brierly watch- 
ing him, was silent a moment, then he seemed to pull 
himself together and to speak with enforced calmness. 
“Ferrars, do you know what thought has taken posses- 
sion of my brain until I cannot shake it off?” 

“Assuredly not,” going on with his promenade. “But 
I shall be glad to hear.” 

“I have begun to fear — yes, to fear — that you have 
found some reason for suspecting me, and that your hor- 
ribly acute logic has even caused Myers to doubt, too.” 

“Man!” Ferrars swung about and suddenly faced 
him. “Much meditation has surely made you mad. 
Now, in heaven’s name, so far as may be, let us under- 
stand each other. First, you are utterly wrong.” 

“Ah!” 

“Next, you speak of Mrs. Jamieson, and of my 'per- 
sonal interest.’ I admit, willingly, that I am interested 


THE LAST STROKE 


167 


in that lady. But my personal -feelings and interests 
must be subservient for a time to your business.” 

‘Tardon me.” 

“And now, I did leave Glenville to follow you, and see 
that you did not spoil my plans by any rashness.” 

“You are talking a puzzle!” 

“Let me talk it out then, for you have forced my hand. 
But for this I should have gone on as before. And I did 
not dream that Mr. Myers and I were playing our game 
so stupidly, so openly; nor that you, owing to your pres- 
ent preoccupation, would prove so astute.” 

“You have not bungled, be sure of that. You have 
been most wonderfully keen and clever, but it was this 
very preoccupation, as you call it, my abnormal sensitive- 
ness, in fact, which made me study your every word and 
set me searching for its hidden meaning; and so I could 
not fail to see that you were handling me, hedging me 
about, for some purpose.” 

“Ah! You have said the word, Brierly.” Ferrars 
resumed his seat opposite the other, and his tone became 
once more composed. “We were trying to ‘hedge you 
about/ to put up a wall between you and the assassin who 
killed your brother. Wait! Let me say it all. It is lit- 
tle enough. Do you remember telling me of an ‘assault’ 
upon your brother, made by footpads, not long before he 
came to Glenville?” 

“Yes.” 

“It was that which gave me my first real clue. It con- 
firmed one of the few theories that seem to fit, or cover, 


168 


THE LAST STROKE 


the case so far as known; but it wanted confirmation. 
I found nothing in Glenville that was in any way 
opposed to this theory, which I was growing to believe 
in, but, on the other hand, I found nothing there to 
strengthen it. When you left that place, I meant to follow 
soon. Meantime I had confided my theory to Mr, 
Myers, who promised not to lose sight of you before 1 
should arrive.” 

^‘But why? Why?” 

“Because I then believed, as I do now, that that attack 
upon your brother last summer was the first act in the 
tragedy which has robbed you of him. I believed the 
plot to be far-reaching. It may be a case of vengeance, 
a family feud. The motive is yet to be discovered, but 
I will admit to you that I have had, from the first, a rea- 
son to think that the affair has not yet ended; and so, as 
soon as I could, I followed you to town. It was well 
that I did so. Before I had been your shadow forty- 
eight hours, I had proof that you were being otherwise 
watched and followed.” 

“Great heavens! And that is why — ” He stopped 
short and bowed his head. 

“That is why Myers and I have been such officious 
friends, why we have advised, remarked, and why I have 
tried to trace to his lair the man who has been your very 
frequent shadow.” 

“And you think he is — ” 

“The assassin himself or his tool.” 

“Good heavens! And you cannot guess his motive?” 


THE LAST STROKE 


169 


‘‘We might guess, of course, half a dozen motives. 
What I have hoped to find was something, some fact in 
your family history, your father’s life, or your mother’s, 
perhaps, that would fit into one of these guesses or 
theories, and make of it a probability.” 

And then the two went all over the array of possi- 
ble reasons and motives, and Brierly again protested his 
lack of any knowledge which might serve as the feeblest 
of guides to the truth. 

‘‘There’s one other thing,” said Brierly, at last. “I 
want to know if the new man, whom Myers took on soon 
after you came to town, is one of your sleuths? He has 
annoyed me more than once by his persistent attentions.” 

Ferrars smiled. “I never supposed you a reader of the 
penny dreadful, Brierly,” he said, “and ‘sleuth’ is a word 
which makes the actual detective smile, and which is not 
known to the professional vocabulary. Hicks is my 
man; yes. And he has followed you, by day and night, 
when you have not had the company of either Myers or 
myself.” 

Robert Brierly threw back his head, and folded his 
arms. After a moment of silence he got up and stood 
before the detective. 

“Ferrars,” he said, “I owe you and my absent friend 
an abject apology for my unworthy suspicions, my impa- 
tience under restraint. And now, I beg of you, let this 
end. I am warned, and I do not think myself a rash 
man. I believe I can protect myself, and how can I 
endure the thought that I must be hedged about by this 


170 


THE LAST STROKE 


constant guardianship, which may last indefinitely? 
Withdraw Hicks, and give your own valuable time to 
better things. Rather than go about knowing myself 
so fenced in and guarded, I will lock myself up in the 
attic and remain a recluse and invisible. Heavens, 
man ! am I so stupid or cowardly a man not to be able to 
cope with an enemy whom I know to be in ambush at 
my very heels 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“OUT OF REACH.’' 

Much as Ferrars regretted Brierly’s discovery, he was 
not much surprised by it, nor could he avoid, or refuse 
an explanation. Robert Brierly was not a child. He 
was a strong man, and a brave one; and, Ferrars, put- 
ting himself in the other’s place, felt at once the force of 
his words, the right of his position; and, after a day or 
two, he withdrew Hicks from his post. At the same 
time he observed with surprise and some misgiving that 
the shadow was no longer on duty. With two trusty 
and able men, by turns, always on watch within sight 
of the Myers place no glimpse of him had been seen for 
more than a week. 

And then, like a lightning flash from a clear sky, the 
blow fell. 

It was Sunday evening, and in the aristocratic uptown 
street where the Meyers lived there reigned a Sabbath 
quiet, for the habitues of the little park beyond 
had left it with the fading twilight, and had already 
passed on their way townward. ^ 

Robert Brierly had been indoors since morning, and 
now, shortly after Mr. and Mrs. Myers had walked down 
the tree-shaded street, toward the church on the avenue 

(171) 


172 


THE LAST STROKE 


three blocks away, he came out upon the broad front 
portico and stood for a moment looking idly up and 
down. 

There had been concessions on both sides, since that 
interview between Brierly and Ferrars in which the 
former had demanded an explanation; and the with- 
drawal of Hicks had been but one of the results ; another 
had been a promise, given by Brierly, whereby he 
pledged himself not to walk the city streets alone after 
dark, but if unaccompanied to take a cab, there being 
a stand only two blocks away, in the direction of the 
park. 

These cabs, when wanted, were to be called by one of 
the servants, and to take him from the door; but on this 
Sunday night, as Brierly looked up and down with a 
growing wish to drive about town and have a talk with 
Ferrars, he remembered that on Sunday the servants 
were allowed to go out ; all save one who must remain in 
charge, and decided that it would be absurd to stand 
there “like a prisoner bound by invisible chains” and wait 
for a chance to bring either carriage or policeman. He 
had received on the previous evening letters from Glen- 
ville, from Hilda and doctor Barnes, and his curi- 
osity had been aroused by the contents of both. He had 
not seen the detective for four days, and he fancied that 
he, too, would have had news from the little lakeside 
town; more explicit and satisfactory news, doubtless, 
than that contained in his own letters. 

“How absurd!” He muttered, apropos of his own 


THE LAST STROKE 


173 


thoughts. ''No doubt I’ll meet a hack before I reach 
the corner,” and he lighted a cigar and went down the 
steps, glancing, from sheer force of habit, for the street 
at that moment seemed quite empty, up and down, as he 
went toward the cab stand. 

"I was sure of it,” he said again, as he neared the cor- 
ner, at the end of the block farthest from his home. 
"There they are, both of them.” 

He was looking ahead, where a cab was coming at a 
slow trot toward him, while around the corner, still 
nearer, a policeman had just appeared. 

As the two men approached each other the officer, who 
had been looking toward the approaching cab, turned his 
face toward Brierly, just as he was passing under the 
glare of a street lamp, and stopped short. 

"Excuse me, sir; this is Mr. Brierly, I believe?” 

Brierly nodded. 

"Mr. Brierly, may I have a few words with you? I 
have been lately put upon this beat, sir; changed from 
the next lower one; and there is something you ought, 
for your own safety, to know. Will you walk a few 
steps with me? I hardly like to stop; I ought to be at 
the next corner right now, in fact.” 

Brierly looked toward the approaching cab. "The 
truth is,” he said, "I want very much to get that cab down 
town; otherwise — ” 

"Oh, I’ll fix that, sir.” And the officer took a step out 
from the curbstone and, standing under the glare of the 
light just above, held up his hand, and whistled shrilly. 


174 : 


THE LAST STROKE 


‘‘Follow us a few steps, Johnny,” he said to the driver. 
“You are wanted for down town.” Then, turning 
toward Brierly, “If you’ll just step across the street after 
me. I’ll tell you what you ought to know. It’s a short 
story.” And he crossed the street briskly, and paused 
on the opposite side to await the other. 

“You see, sir,” he began, as Brierly joined him, “we 
can walk slow, for a few' steps here, where all’s quiet.” 

Brierly paused to look back. The cab w^as turning at 
the corner, and it follow-ed them, at a snail’s pace, and 
close behind, dowm the still and shady side-street. “You 
see. I’ve been noticing, for a couple of w'eeks, or maybe 
more, a fellow who just seemed to patrol the street next 
below this, almost as faithfully as I did, and for quite a 
time I w'ondered w'hy; and thus I began to watch him, 
till I found that his promenades ahvays took him round 
the corner, and seemed to bring him up right opposite 
the house you live in. I guess I ought to step a little 
brisker, sir; somebody’s coming. The man was not very 
tall, and thick set like, and if I hadn’t taken notice of him, 
at the first, almost, I might not have recognized him, 
for he changed his clothes almost every trip ; sometimes 
dressing common, sometimes quite swell; but I knew 
him every time.” 

“Make it as short as you can, officer; we’re almost at 
the corner.” 

“All right, sir.” The man glanced back. “Your cab’s 
here, all right, sir. I was just going to tell you how we 
came to arrest the fellow.” 


u ■ 



> 







THE LAST STROKE 


“Ah!” Brierly smiled in the dusk. It had puzzled 
Ferrars or seemed to, the sudden cessation of the spy’s 
visits, and now he would be able to enlighten the detec- 
tive. “You have him, then? This shall be worth some- 
thing to you.” 

“I don’t want a reward for doing a plain duty, sir. 
Just walk on ahead for a step; somebody’s coming.” 

Preoccupied with the story, and without glancing 
behind, Brierly did as he was told, and had advanced, not 
ten paces from the corner, when there was a swift blow, 
a fall and a cry, three pistol shots in swift succession, and 
the rattle of wheels; all so close together that the time 
could have been counted in seconds. 

“Brierly! Are you badly hurt.” The revolver fell 
from the fingers of the man who had prevented the sec- 
ond blow, and put to flight the sham policeman, who 
had so deftly contrived his appearance, with the aid of the 
cab, between the rounds of the policeman proper, who 
now came up panting, his footsteps hastened by the shrill 
call of the whistle in the hands of the new or latest 
comer. And then the inmates of the neighboring houses 
rushed out, and, for the moment, there was confusion, 
consternation and clamor. 

“Is he dead?” 

“How did it happen?” 

“Was it a sandbag?” 

“To think of a holdup on this street!” 

“There was a carriage. I’m sure.” 

And then the policeman was flashing his lantern about 


178 


THE LAST STROKE 


among them, as he bade them stand back, and the res- 
cuer, who looked like a workman in his Sunday clothes, 
looked up, from the place where he knelt, supporting the 
head and shoulders of the unconscious man, and said; 

'‘Gentlemen, this is Mr. Brierly, Robert Brierly of 
1030 C — Avenue; the Myers house, only two blocks 
away. He must be taken home at once. Has anyone 
a cot? No, he must be carried.’’ For at the name of the 
Myers house, a gentleman had proffered his carriage at 
once. “And, officer, call up help. If possible, that cab 
must be traced. Send to the stand just above and find 
out what cabs have left it within the past quarter hour. 
Let someone go ahead and bring Doctor Glessner from 
just opposite 1030. He’s at home.” 

“How did it happen?” asked Mr. Myers, two hours 
later, when the injured man — his wounded head carefully 
dressed — lay, still dazed and in a precarious condition 
in his darkened room, with a trained nurse in attendance. 

Ferrars having seen his friend in his own room, and in 
the hands of the doctors, had not waited for their verdict, 
but had set off to put in motion his plan for hunting 
down the would-be murderer, and he had but now 
returned, full of anxiety for the fate of the sufferer. 

“How did it happen? After all our precautions, too!” 

“It’s easy to tell how it happened,” replied Ferrars 
with some bitterness. “It happened, first, because the 
enemy outwitted me, in spite of my cordon of guards; 
and, second, because Brierly lost patience and exposed 
himself.” 


THE LAST STROKE 


179 


‘‘But how?” 

“I can only give you my theory for that. He was 
alone in the house, eh?” 

“Yes. We were both out when he went.” 

“He wanted, doubtless, to go to town. There was 
no servant at hand whom he wished to send, so he walked 
toward the hack stand, or so I suppose. At the corner 
he met a policeman, as he thought, of course, and so, for 
a moment did I. They stopped, spoke together, and 
the sham policeman hailed an empty cab that was close 
at hand; then they crossed the street, the cab following, 
and the policeman seemed to be doing the talking, as I 
saw when they passed under the light at the corner. I 
had suspected some new plot, from the fact that the spy 
had so suddenly disappeared, and I had watched your 
place, in person, for the past three nights.” 

“Oh! And that is why we have seen so little of you?” 

“In part. Well, I made up my mind, when they 
walked away together down that tree-shaded cross-street, 
that there was something wrong. I was on the opposite 
side, and concluded to close up, seeing that the cab was 
getting very near and edging close to their side, against 
all rules of the road. I had got half way across, and was 
just behind the cab, when I saw Brierly step ahead of 
the other, and then came the blow. As I sprang forward 
the cabby gave a loud hiss and the scoundrel saw me, and 
sprang for the cab with his arm still uplifted for another 
blow. I fired twice running, the third time turning long 
enough to send another shot at him as he entered the car- 


180 


THE LAST STROKE 


riage door. Then he was off. I think he was hit, once 
at least.”' 

''He will be caught, don’t you think so? A cab driv- 
ing like mad through those quiet streets?” 

"No. He will not be caught, I fear.” 

"But why?” 

"Because he will have had a second vehicle, a carriage, 
no doubt, not far away, and he will leave the cab, which 
will slacken up for a moment for that, and then dash on.” 

"How can you know that?” 

"Because, when I find that I am dealing with a clever 
rascal I ask, what would I do in his place? And that is 
what I would have done.” 

"Well, well!” The lawyer sighed. "Poor Robert.” 

"If he only had been less impatient!” exclaimed Fer- 
rars. 

"If we had l^een wiser, and had not left him! The 
boy was in a peculiarly restless mood. Even my wife 
had observed that since morning.” 

"And why since morning?” 

The lawyer looked at him gravely for a moment. "Did 
you ever hear of Ruth Glidden?” he asked. 

"The orphan heiress? Of course; through the society, 
columns of the newspapers.” 

'‘Ruth Glidden and the Brierly boys grew up as the 
best of friends and neighbors. The elders of the two 
families were friends equally warm. I believe in my soul 
that Glidden would gladly have seen his daughter marry 
one of the Brierly boys. And if things had run 


THE LAST STROKE 


181 


smooth — but there! Briefly was accounted a rich man, 
and he was until less than a year before his death, when 
the failure of the F. and S. Railway Company, and the 
Northwestern Land concern, within three months of each 
other, left him a heavy loser. Even then, if Glidden had 
been alive all might have been well. But he died, two 
years before Brierly’s death, and Ruth went to live with 
her purse-proud aunt, her father’s sister. The two fam- 
ilies had resided for years, side by side, on this avenue.” 

“And where is Miss Glidden now?” asked Ferrars. 

“Here in this city since day before yesterday. She 
and her aunt have been abroad for a year, but I believe 
that they care for each other, though Robert is so proud, 
and that is not all. The brothers have each a few thou- 
sand dollars still, and it appears that shortly before his 
death, Charlie — he was always a methodical fellow — 
instructed his brother, in case of his sudden death, to 
make over all of his share to Miss Hilda Grant. Robert 
told me of this upon his return with the body, and he 
also said that all he possessed should go, if needful, to the 
clearing up of this murder mystery.” 

“It may be needful,” sighed Ferrars. “I fear it will 
be.” 

“Then, good-bye to Robert’s hopes! With it he 
might make a lucky hit; might have a chance. Without 
it,” he shrugged his shoulders, “what can even so bright 
a journalist, as he undoubtedly is, do to win a fortune 
quickly. And he won’t accept help, even from me, his 
father’s oldest friend.” 


L82 


THE LAST STROKE 


“No,’’ said Ferrars, gloomily. “Of course not. How 
could he? Mr. Myers, I’ll be honest and tell you that 
I’m afraid we’ve struck a blank wall. Things look dark 
on all hands, just now, for poor Brierly.” 

“What! Do you think the clue, the case, is lost, then?” 
“Not lost. Oh, no. Only I fear, out of reach.” 


CHAPTER XVIL 


RUTH GLIDDEN. 

Francis Ferrars sat in his sanctum, one could scarcely 
call it an office, although he received here, now and 
again, visitors of many sorts on business bent. For, 
since his coming to America, five years before, to find 
the heiress of Sir Hillary Massinger, he had read many 
another riddle, and now, as at first, he worked indepen- 
dently, but with the difference that he now undertook 
only such cases as especially attracted him by reason of 
their strangeness, or of the worth, or need, of the client. 

Two letters lay before him, and as he pondered, frown- 
ing from time to time, he would take up one or the other 
and re-read a passage, and compress his lips and give 
vent to his thoughts in fragmentary sentences. For he 
had grown, because of much solitude, to think aloud 
when his thoughts grew troublesome, voicing the pros 
and cons of a case, and seeming to find this an aid to 
clearness of thought. 

‘Tt’s a most baffling thing,” he declared, taking up for 
the third time a letter in the strong upright hand of doc- 
tor Barnes. 'T wonder just what the man meant by pen- 
ning this,” and once more he ran his eye over this para- 
graph which occurred at the end of a long letter: 

(183) 


184 


THE LAST STROKE 


“Mrs. Jamieson has not forgotten you. She asks after 
you now and then, when we meet, and desires to be 
remembered to you. She is not looking well, and, I 
fancy, finds Glenville duller than at first.” 

“ril wager she does not think of me any oftener than 
I of her. And she can’t know how ardently I long to 
stand before her and look into those changeful, blue- 
green eyes of hers. What strangely handsome eyes they 
are — And say — Ah! how will those eyes look then, I 
wonder?” 

Presently he turns the sheet and reads again : 

“I think you did well to instruct your two men here to 
make use of, and place confidence in, Doran. He’s a 
host in himself. And what do you think of the tramp 
they have traced to the vicinity of that boat on the morn- 
ing of the murder? He was seen, it appears, by at least 
three.” 

“Umph!” laying down the letter. “If you were here, 
my dear Barnes, I would tell you frankly — I feel just like 
being brutally frank with someone — that I have no doubt 
that the tramp is a link — there seems to be so many of 
them, and all detached — a link — and that he approached 
the boat in that tramp disguise, after separating from his 
confederate at some more distant point. Bah ! It looks 
simple enough. Confederate leaves vehicle — or two 
horses, possibly — they could slip off the saddles and hob- 
ble them in a thicket, whero. they would look, to the 
passer-by, like a pair of grazing animals, or they might 
have used a wagon, travelling thus like two innocent 




THE LAST STROKE 185 

bucolics. Then, how plain to me, the assassin goes 
through the woods, watchfully, like an Indian. The 
tramp boatman patrols the shore, to signal to the other 
when the victim appears; or, should the assassin on shore 
be unable to creep upon his prey, the assassin in the boat 
may row boldly near, and, at the signal from the other, 
telling him there is a clear coast, fire upon the victim. 
If he is sure of his aim, how easy! And if seen by the 
victim, well — “Dead men tell no tales.” 

He muses silently awhile now, puts down the doctor’s 
letter, and takes up the other. 

“This,” he murmurs, “is tantalizing.” And then he 
reads from a letter, signed “Hilda G — .” 

“Mrs. Jamieson begins to complain of the dullness of 
this place, in spite of the fact that she has had a visit 
from her husband’s brother, a Mr. Carl Jamieson. He 
did not make a long visit, and I saw but little of him. 
He is something of a cripple, a sufferer from rheumatism, 
and just back from the hot springs. I met him but once. 
He looks and talks like an Englishman, and has a dark 
eye that betokens, if I am a judge of eyes, a bad tem- 
per. I give you these details knowing that all concern- 
ing the little blonde lady is of interest to you.” 

“Of interest!” he muttered. “I should think so! 
Doubly so, now that there’s so little else of interest, or — ” 
He stopped short, and wheeled about in his chair. His 
office boy had swung open his door and was saying: 

“A lady to see you, sir.” And Ferrars arose to con- 
front a visitor, a lu*unette so tall and lissom, so glow- 


186 


THE LAST STROKE 


ing with the rich hues of health and beauty, so clear of 
eye, and direct of gaze, that Ferrars could not at first 
find his usually obedient tongue, and then she spoke. 

“Mr. Ferrars!’’ her voice was a low, rich contralto. “I 
am Miss Ruth Glidden, and I have come to you to seek 
information concerning the awful death of my friend, 
Charles Brierly. Pray, let me explain myself at once.” 

Ferrars bowed, placed her a chair, and closed the half- 
open door. 

“The Brierlys and my own people were old friends, 
and Robert and Charlie Brierly were my childhood play- 
mates. I arrived home, ten days ago, after a year 
spent in Europe, and learned, soon, of Charlie’s sad fate. 
While this shock was still fresh upon me, I heard of 
Robert’s narrow escape from a like attack. Mr. and 
Mrs. Myers are my dear friends. I have spent much of 
the past week under their roof, and — ” There was a lit- 
tle catch of the breath, and then she went bravely on. 
“And I have had a long frank talk, first with IMrs. 
Myers, and then with her husband. -He has told me all 
that he could tell. He has assured me that you are 
wholly to be trusted and relied upon, and, knowing my 
wishes — my intentions, in fact — Mr. Myers has advised 
me to come to you.” 

“And in what way can I serve you. Miss Glidden?” 

“Please, understand me. I have heard the story; that 
there are clues, but broken and disconnected ones; that 
you know what should be done, but that there is a bar- 
rier in the way of the doing. Mr. Ferrars, as a true 


THE LAST STROKE 


187 


friend of Robert Brierly, I ask yon to tell me what that 
barrier is? I have a right to know.” The rich tints of 
olive and rose had faded from her rounded cheek, leav- 
ing it pale. But the dark eyes were still steadily intense 
in their regard. 

As Ferrars was about to reply, after a moment of sil- 
ent meditation, the door opened and the boy came in 
again, softly and silently, and placed upon the desk a 
handful of letters, just arrived; laying a finger upon the 
topmost one, and glancing up at his employer, thus signi- 
fying that here was his excuse for entering at such a 
moment. 

The letter was marked ‘‘immediate,” and the handwrit- 
ing was that of James Myers. 

With a murmured apology, the detective opened it and 
read. 

“My Dear Ferrars: During the day you will no doubt 
receive a call from Miss Glidden. I cannot dictate your 
course, l)ut I write this to say that no friend of Brierly ’s 
has a better right to the truth — all of it — nor a stronger 
will and greater power to aid. Of her ability to keep a 
secret you can judge when you meet her. Yours. 

“JAMES MYERS.’’ 

When he had read this letter Ferrars silently proffered 
it to his visitor, and in silence she accepted and read it. 

“I was strongly inclined to accede to your request, 
after, first, asking one question,” he said when she gave 
the letter back, still without speaking. “And now, hav- 
ing read this, I am quite ready to tell you what I can.” 

“And the question?” 


188 


THE LAST STROKE 


‘T will ask it, but have no right to insist upon the 
answer. Have you any motive, beyond the natural 
desire to understand the case, in coming to me?” 

She leaned slightly toward him and kept her earnest 
eyes steadily upon his face as she replied, cannot 
believe that you credit me with coming here, on such an 
errand, simply because I wish to know. I do wish to 
know as much as possible, but let me first tell you, 
plainly,, my motives and why I have assumed such a right 
or privilege. To begin, I am told that Robert Brierly 
will not be able to think or act for himself for some time 
to come.” 

^‘That, unhappily, is true.” 

‘^And how does this affect your position?” 

‘Tt is unfortunate for me, of course. The case has 
reached a point when I can hardly venture far unauthor- 
ized, and yet no moment should be lost. The time has 
come when skilled investigations, covering many weeks, 
perhaps, as well as long journeys, are necessary. We 
need also the constant watchfulness of a number of 
clever shadowers.” 

“And this requires — it will incur great expense?” she 
asked quickly. “Is it not so?” 

Ferrars bowed gravely. 

“Mr. Ferrars,” she began, and there was a sudden sub- 
tle change in her voice. “I am going to speak to you as 
a woman seldom speaks to a man, for I trust you, and we 
must understand each other. Two years ago, when I 
was leaving my old home for my aunt’s house, having 


THE LAST STROKE 


189 


still a half year of study before me, with the year abroad, 
already planned, to follow, Robert Brierly came to bid 
me good-bye, and this is what he said; I remember every 
word: ‘Ruth, we have been playmates for ten years, and 
dear friends for almost ten years more. Now I am a 
man, and poor, and you a budding woman, soon to be 
launched into society, and an heiress. I would be a 
scoundrel to seek to bind you to any promise now, so I 
leave you free to see the world and to know your own 
heart. I have not a fortune, but if labor and effort will 
bring it about I hope to be able to offer you a fit home 
some day, for I love you, and I shall not change. I 
want you to be happy, Ruth, more than all else, and so I 
say, go out into the world, dear, and if you find in it a 
good man whom you love, that is enough. But, remem- 
ber this; as long as you remain Ruth Glidden, I shall 
hope to win you when I can do so and still feel myself 
a man, for I do not fear your wealth, Ruth, only I must 
first show myself to possess the ability to win my way, on 
your own level.’ ” 

She paused a moment, and bent her face upon her 
hand. Then she resumed, almost in a whisper. “He 
would not let me speak. He knew too well that he had 
always been very dear to me, and he feared to take 
advantage of my inexperience. I loved and honored 
him for that, and every day and every hour since that 
moment I have looked upon myself as his promised wife 
and have been supremely happy in the thought. And 
now — ” There was a little pause and a sobbing catch of 


190 


THE LAST STROKE 


the breath — “Have I not the right, Mr. Ferrars, to put 
out my hand and help in this work? To say what I 
came here to say? My fortune is ample. It is mine 
alone. I am of age, and my own mistress. Take me 
into your confidence, to the utmost, make me your 
banker, and push on the work. Robert Brierly may be 
helpless for weeks or months longer. Charlie Brierly 
was as a brother to me. No one has a stronger right to 
do this thing.” 

“Miss Glidden, have you thought or been told that — ” 

“That Robert may die? Yes. But I will never believe 
it. And, even so, there is yet more reason why this work 
should not be dropped, why no mom'ent should be lost.” 
She paused again, battling now for self-control; then — 

“There is one other thing,” she resumed. Mr. Myers 
has told me of the young lady, poor Charlie’s fiancee. 
Will you tell me her name? He did not speak it, I am 
sure, and I want to write to her, to know her.” 

“That will be a kindly deed, for she, too, is an orphan. 
Her name is Hilda Grant.” 

“Hilda! Hilda Grant! Tell me, how does she look?” 

“A brown-haired, gray-eyed, sweet-faced young 
woman, with a clear, healthy pallor and a rich color in 
her lips alone. The hair is that golden brown verging 
upon auburn; she is tall, or seems so, because of her 
slight, almost fragile gracefulness.” 

“Ah! Thank you, thank you. That is my own Flilda 
Grant, who was my schoolmate and dearest friend, and 
who cut me because she was poor, and buried herself in 


THE LAST STROKE 


191 


some rustic school house. She shall not stay there. 
She shall come to me.” 

“I fancy she will hardly be induced to leave Glenville 
now.” 

“I must see her. She will come up to see Robert, 
surely!” 

‘'She is only waiting to know when she may see him.” 

“Of course. And now, it is agreed, is it not? You 
will take me as a silent partner?” 

“Since Mr. Myers sanctions it I cannot refuse. Besides 
I see you are quite capable of instituting a new search, if 
I did.” 

“I will not deny it.” And they smiled, each in the 
other’s face. 

“Perhaps,” he said, now grave again, “when I have 
told you all my ideas, theories and plans, you will not be 
so ready to risk a small fortune, for, unless I am greatly 
in error, you will think what I am about to propose, after 
I have reviewed the entire situation, the wildest bit of 
far fetched imagining possible, especially as I cannot, 
even to you describe, name, or in any manner character- 
ize the person, or persons, whom I wish to follow up, for 
months it may be, and because the slender threads by 
which I connect them with the few facts and clues we 
have, would not hold in the eyes of the most visionary 
judge and jury in the land.” 

“It will hold in my eyes. Do you think I have not 
informed myself concerning you and your work? Is not 
Elias Lord my banker, and Mrs. Bathurst persona grata 
in my aunt’s home? I am ready to listen, Mr. Ferrars.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


SUDDEN FUITTINGS. 

For two weeks Ruth Glidden stood at the right hand 
of Mrs. Myers, and supplemented the trained nurse in 
the sick room. 

At first she only entered while the patient slept, but 
after a few days the stupor began to lessen, and the 
flightiness, with which it had alternated, to decrease. 
And then one day he knew them, and, by the doctor’s 
orders, the nurse withdrew and Ruth came to the bed- 
side and sat down beside him. 

^‘Robert, dear,” she said smiling down upon him. 
“You have very nearly let that wretched footpad spoil 
the good looks of the only lover I ever had, and to pre- 
vent further mischief I am come to take care of you.” 
She said very little more then, but gradually the patient 
found himself being ruled by her nod, and liking the 
tyranny; so that when he was told that he was going 
away to try what change of air and scene would do for 
his maltreated head, he listened to her while she told him 
a tale which seemed to interest her much and through 
which the names Ferrars, Myers, Hilda, and the pro- 
nouns “they,” and “them” often occurred. And then it 
came about that, supported to a carriage and transferred 
(192) 


THE LAST STROKE - 


193 


then to a swinging cot, he was taken on board a Pull- 
man sleeper, and with nurse and attendant was whirled 
away southward. 

Two days later, James Myers said good-bye to wife 
and friends and set sail, on board the good ship Etruria 
en route for Europe. 

“Yes,” he said to an acquaintance whom he met at 
the wharf. “Pve wanted to make the trip, you know, 
for a long time, and now a matter of business, the look- 
ing up of certain titles and records, makes the journey 
needful, and I can combine pleasure and business.” And 
then he turned away to say a few last words to Francis 
Ferrars before the signal sounded and he must say good- 
bye to his anxious wife, to serious-faced Ruth Glidden. 

“And now,” said the detective to Ruth, “The next flit- 
ting will be toward Glenville. 

Before the end of that week Mrs. Myers, who stood 
staunchly by Ruth, and would not hear of her going 
alone, Ruth herself, and a keen-eyed maid — not the one 
who had accompanied the young heiress home from 
Europe, but another supplied by Mr. Ferrars — all arrived 
at Glenville, and took quarters at the Glenville House, 
where Hilda Grant soon sought her friend, and promised 
herself much comfort in her society. 

At first. Miss Glidden did not seem to desire acquaint- 
ances, and Mrs. Jamieson complained that she found 
herself almost deserted, Hilda was so preoccupied with 
her newly-arrived friend. But this was soon changed. 

Miss Glidden and her party had at first been placed in 


194 


THE LAST STROKE 


quarters which the young lady did not find to her taste. 
There must be a pleasanter chamber for her friend, Mrs. 
Myers, and a reception room for their joint use, and it 
ended in her securing the little parlor suite adjoining that 
of Mrs. Jamieson. 

For a time even this close proximity did not seem to 
break the ice, and while having been introduced by 
Hilda, the two ladies were for some days, strangers still. 

For reasons which Ferrars might have explained if he 
would, Hilda Grant had not visited Robert Brierly while 
he lay under the care of doctor and nurse, and now 
that they were together, the two girls, having first 
exchanged fullest personal confidences, had much to say 
about Robert and his dead brother. 

At the end of their first confidential talk, Ruth had 
said: “Apropos of this, Hilda, my dear, let me remind 
you that I have not outgrown my dislike of being quizzed 
or questioned by the simply curious, for the sake of curi- 
osity. I know what a small town is, and so, I warn you 
not to let the dear inhabitants know that I am more than 
a friend of your own. To proclaim me a friend of the 
Brierlys as well, will be just to expose us both to the 
inquisitive, and to set vivid imaginations at work.” 

Hilda’s eyes studied her face a moment. “I think you 
will not be troubled. My acquaintances all know that I 
do not willingly talk on that terrible subject. Even 
Mrs. Jamieson, who saw its fearful beginning and who 
is with me often, seldom speaks of it to me.” 

“The pretty widow? Mr. Ferrars, pardon me, your 


THE LAST STROKE 


195 


cousin, spoke of her more than once,” and Ruth cast a 
keen side glance at her friend’s face. 

‘"And she speaks of him, now and then.” 

“As which?” 

“As my cousin; for so she believes him to be.” 

“And you think them mutually interested? I must 
really see more of my pretty neighbor.” 

Miss Glidden and her party had been a week in Glen- 
ville when “Mr. Ferriss-Grant” arrived, and spent a few 
days in the village, making his home at the doctor’s cot- 
tage, and passing most of his time with Hilda and her 
friends. Mrs. Jamieson had now made better progress 
with her fair and stately neighbor, and they might have 
been seen strolling toward the school house together, or 
driving along the terrace road — for Mrs. Jamieson had 
declared that the -tragedy of the lake shore had spoiled 
the lakeside road for her — in Doran’s pony carriage, and, 
sometimes with “Miss Grant’s cousin” for , charioteer. 

One evening the little party sauntered away from the 
pretty hotel together to walk to Flilda’s home and sit for 
an hour upon Mrs. Marcy’s broad and shaded piazza, 
which Mrs. Jamieson declared so charmingly secluded, 
after the chatter and movement, the coming and going 
upon that of the Glenville House. 

They had been taking tea with Mrs. Myers and Ruth, 
Hilda, Mrs. Jamieson, and the sham cousin, who 
seemed to rather enjoy his role, if one might judge by 
his manner, and they seemed inclined to pass the 
remainder of the evening together. 


196 


THE LAST STROKE 


They had not been long seated upon the vine-shaded 
piazza when Doctor Barnes came up the walk and 
dropped down upon the upper step, like one quite at 
home. .It was now more than two weeks since Robert 
Brierly had been carried southward and the people of 
Glenville, for the most part, had heard most discouraging 
reports from the invalid, most of them given forth by the 
doctor, or “Sam” Doran, who, by the way, had been for 
the past month entertaining a warmly welcomed and 
much quoted “first cousin” from “out west.” 

The doctor held a letter in his hand, and seeing this. 
Miss Grant’s cousin asked carelessly : 

“Any news of general interest in that blue envelope, 
doctor?” 

They could not see the doctor’s face, but his voice 
was very grave when he replied, “I’m sorry to say yes. 
Our friend down south is in a very bad way.” 

“Mr. Brierly?” exclaimed Mrs. Jamieson. “Oh, doc- 
tor, tell us the worst.” And then she murmured to Ruth, 
who sat near her, “Miss Grant’s friend, you know, but 
of course you do. I have grown as much interested in 
his welfare, somehow, as if he were not really a stranger, 
whom I never saw but once.” 

The doctor had left his place, and crossed to the open 
window, through which the lamp-light shone upon the 
open letter. 

“T think I can see to read it,” he said, and bent over 
the sheet. “The writer says: 

“I fear our friend will not see many more Florida suns; 


THE LAST STROKE 


197 


will not be here with us long. The change has been 
surprisingly rapid, and the heart is now seriously impli- 
cated. Do not be surprised if ill news comes at an early 
day.’’ 

He folded the letter. ^Tll news should always be 
briefly told,” he said. 

When the ladies came in, that night, having parted 
from the two gentlemen who had escorted them as far as 
the piazza steps, they found Miss Glidden’s maid hover- 
ing in the passage, near her mistresse’s door. 

“Miss Glidden, ladies,” she began in evident agitation, 
“I have been terribly frightened. Someone has been in 
your room, and, I fear, in that of this lady also. I sat, 
for an hour, on the back piazza with two of the house 
maids, and when I came up, only a few steps from this 
room, someone slipped out from Mrs. Jamieson’s door 
and round the corner toward the south hall. I did not 
think about it until I had gone into your room to make 
all ready for the night, and then I saw the closet door 
open, and the things upon your table pulled about as if 
someone had hurried much, and had left, when they 
found it was not a sleeping room. Then I thought of 
the next room, of the person coming out so still and so 
sly-” 

Miss Glidden pushed past the maid, and opened her 
own door. “Look in your room, Mrs. Jamieson,” she 
said, “and see if you have really been robbed before we 
alarm the house. Susan, go with her.” 

Mrs. Jamieson found that her door was indeed 


198 


THE LAST STROKE 


unlocked, and her inner room showed plainly that a 
hasty hand had searched, here and there. 

“It’s lucky that I never leave money where it can be 
got at,” she said to Ruth, when she had taken in the full 
extent of the mischief,” and that I haven’t taken my 
jewel box from the hotel safe for three days. Even my 
purse was in my chatelaine with me. I find absolutely 
nothing gone. But my boxes, my frocks, my boots 
and wraps, even, have been pulled about. It’s very 
strange. The thief must have been frightened away 
before anything was taken.” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Miss Glidden, the person wanted 
clothing, and heard Susan coming down the hall.” 

It was very strange, but, although they called the 
landlord, and told him privately of the invasion, and 
though there was a quiet but strict investigation, nothing 
came of it, and no one was even suspected. 

“It was certainly someone from outside, who slipped 
in through some open door in the dark, while everyone 
was out upon the piazzas, or in the grounds. These halls 
are not lighted until quite dark, sometimes, I find. I am 
thankful that you met with no loss, ladies,” said mine 
host. 

Next morning Mrs. Myers declared herself more than 
ready to leave Glenville. The thought of being in a 
house where an intruder found it so easy to make free 
with a lady’s wardrobe, was not pleasant, and she hoped 
Ruth would not ask her to spend another week in the 
town. In fact she only stipulated for a fortnight’s visit 


THE LAST STROKE 


199 


with her friend, Miss Grant, upon which Ruth promised 
that they would really go very soon, although she was 
enjoying herself. 

Three days later a party of the Glenville’s guests set 
off, after an early breakfast for a long drive, and a day’s 
fishing, at a spot some miles distant and near the north 
end of the lake, at a famous picnic ground. Mrs. Jamie- 
son was one of the merry crew, and she urged Ruth 
Glidden to join them, as did the others, all; but Ruth 
“never fished and detested picnics;” besides, the other 
people, she declared, were for the most part utter strang- 
ers, and Hilda and “Mr. Grant” were not invited. 

When Mrs. Jamieson came back with the rest of the 
tired merry-makers she knocked at Ruth’s door to 
announce her return. 

There was no response, and she entered her own 
rooms where she found, conspicuously placed, a note. 
It was in a strong masculine hand, and she opened it 
quickly, looking first at the name at the bottom of the 
sheet. It was F. Grant. 

She caught her breath, and sat down to read, wonder- 
ing still and her heart beating strangely. 

“Dear Madam,” so ran the note. “You will be sur- 
prised, I know, to hear of our so sudden departure. Poor 
Brierly is dead, and we start to-day by the four o’clock 
express, hoping thus to reach the city before the party 
from the south arrive there. They started, we learn, on 
Tuesday morning. Mrs. Myers and Miss Glidden have 
kindly accompanied us, that my cousin may have the 
comfort of her friends’ companionship, and the protec- 


200 


THE LAST STROKE 


tion of the elder lady, whose guest she will be. In the 
haste of departure I am commissioned to say what they 
would have gladly said in person. For myself, while I 
trust we may meet again, and soon, may I presume to 
ask — in the event of your going away from Glenville, for 
my cousin has said it was possible — that you will let the 
doctor know where we may in future address you? In 
the hope of seeing you again, at an early date, I am 
“Sincerely and hopefully, 

“F. GRANT.” 

An hour later she sent for Doctor Barnes, who came 
promptly. 

“Doctor,” she began, as soon as he had entered her 
room, and closed the door. “I wonT try to deceive you. 
I have had twinges of neuralgia to-day, and my bottle is 
quite empty. But I want, most of all, to hear more 
about this sudden flitting. They have left me just a line 
of farewell. Of course I know about poor Mr. Brierly. 
There’s no doubt of his death.” 

“Not the least in the world, I regret to say.” 

“It is very sad, but I suppose they were prepared for 
the news.” 

“Yes.” 

“Now tell me about Miss Grant. Is she not coming 
back to her school?” 

“I don’t quite know. Her cousin, who is a very suc- 
cessful man in business, goes abroad soon, and he would 
like to have her among her friends. Miss Glidden is 
anxious to keep her, for a time at least. I believe she. 
Miss Grant, had a few words with Doran. I fancy it will 
end in her resignation.” 


THE LAST STROKE 


201 


“Then how I wish she would come abroad, if not with 
her cousin, then with me. For I shall go soon, I quite 
think. In fact there are business matters, of my hus- 
band’s, money matters that require my presence. I must 
write to Miss Grant.” 

“Then address her at the Loremer House for the pres- 
ent. Miss Glidden has a suite of rooms there.” 

A week later Mrs. Jamieson, accompanied by her 
friend, Mrs. Arthur, looked in upon Doctor Barnes. 

“I have come to say good-bye, doctor,” said the 
former. “I leave here in the morning. My brother-in- 
law, who is on his way eastward, after a second hurried 
western trip, will be in the city to-morrow ^ I meet him 
there, and we sail in three days. Mr. Grant has written 
me that the ladies are all out of the city, so I shall not 
see them, but he thinks they will all be in London before 
the end of summer.” 

Thus of all the active dramatis personae of our story, 
but few were left in Glenville by mid- July. 

“And so the pretty widow’s gone,” said Samuel Doran 
to the doctor, the day after this final flitting. “Looks 
like Glenville couldn’t be a healthy place in July. Even 
my ‘first cousin from out west’ skipped out sort of sud- 
den yesterday; couldn’t stay another minute.” 

“You don’t look heartbroken,” suggested the doctor. 

“Oh, I can spare him. Anyhow, I guess ’twas time he 
went. Powerful eater, that first cousin of mine.”. And 
Doran grinned from ear to ear.^ 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THROUGH THK MAIL. 

From James Myers, Att’y, to Wendell Haynes, solic- 
itor, with offices in Middle Temple Lane, ofif Fleet street, 
which is London’s legal heart and brain and life. Fleet 
street, with such a history past, present, and to come, as 
may never be written in full by all the story-telling pens 
combined in this greatest literary center, and working 
harmoniously ; no, not in the space of a lifetime. Drafted 
in the office of the American lawyer, two days before 
his setting sail from New York, bound for London; 
and it was received, owing to stress of weather, five 
days before its writer set foot on British ground; and 
read by its recipient with no little surprise. 

This is what it contained: 

'‘Wendell Haynes, Esq., Middle Temple Lane, Etc., 

London. 

“Dear Sir: After four years I find myself in the act of 
reminding you of my continued existence, and of your 
promise of proffered help, should a day come when you, 
on that side, could aid me, on this, because of what you 
chose to consider your debt to me. To proceed: in two 
days I set out for England, and it will take me, upon my 
arrival, many days, perhaps, to find out what you, with 
your knowledge of places and people, and your easy 
access to the records, can do in half a day, no* doubt. I 
feel sure that I can rely upon you to do for me this per- 

(202) 


THE LAST STROKE 


203 


sonal favor, which is not in the direct line of your busi- 
ness routine, perhaps, but is quite within your ability, I 
trust and hope; and without taxing too much^your time 
and energy. And now to business. 

“I have reason to think that a certain Paisley estate 
over- there awaits an heir; and that one Hugo Paisley, or 
his heirs, have been advertised for. To know the exact 
status of the case, and something about the people with 
whom I may have to deal, at once, upon my arrival, will 
help me much. And it is to ask for this information at 
your hands that I now address you,, and, being sure of 
your will to aid me, as well as confident of your ability, 
I shall trust to hear that which I so much wish to know, 
upon my arrival in London, and from you. 

‘T sail by the Etruria, and shall stop at Brown’s. 

‘‘Yours sincerely, 

“JAS. MYERS.” 

Wendell Haynes, solicitor, smiled as he read this .mis- 
sive. He had a most vivid remembrance of his first and 
only visit to America, and of his meeting with James 
Myers, quite by accident and shortly after his arrival in 
Chicago, which city had seemed to the visitor, a more 
amazing thing than the howling wilderness which he had 
been in daily expectation of seeing, would have appeared 
to him. 

In his efforts to run down a friend from the suburbs, 
Myers had consulted a hotel register, and seeing the 
name of the English lawyer, written by its owner just 
under his eye, he had first looked at the man, and then at 
the name, and, upon learning that he was an utter 
stranger to the city, and to the ways of its legal fraternity 
he had presented his card. 


204 : 


THE LAST STROKE 


Solicitor Haynes had visited America and the “states” 
to investigate what had appeared to be an effort, on the 
part of Afnerican agents, to cheat the widow of a cer- 
tain English ranch owner out of her just rights and law- 
ful income, and the assistance rendered by Mr. Myers 
had earned him the lasting and earnestly expressed grat- 
itude of his brother attorney, who asked for nothing bet- 
ter than an opportunity to repay the favor in kind, and 
no time was lost in the doing of it; so that when James 
Myers arrived at Brown’s, and put his name upon the big 
register, the following letter was promptly handed him 
across the clerk’s desk: 

“James Myers, Esq., Brown’s Hotel, London. 

Dear Sir; Your favor of was very welcome, 

affording me, as it did, some small opportunity to return 
a very little of what I owe you for many past courtesies 
and most valuable service, and I have lost no time in 
looking up the information you desire. 

“There is a large estate, that of the Paisleys of Illches- 
ter, awaiting the next of kin, who should be, so far as is 
known, the descendants of one Hugo Paisley who left 
this country nearly eighty years ago and whose heirs, 
male or female, are entitled to inherit. There has been 
an effort made to hear from these heirs, and, strange to 
say, there has been no reply, nor has any other claimant 
appeared of lesser degree. If you will call upon me 
upon your arrival I will give you all details and addresses 
so far as known to me, and siiall be very glad if I can be 
of yet further use. Yours sincerely, 

“W. D. HAYNES.” 

“You see,” said Solicitor Haynes, at the close of an 
hour’s talk witii Lawyer Myers, “thus far all is quite 


THE LAST STROKE 


205 


clearly traced, and there is no doubt of the rights of the 
Hugo Paisley heirs — if such are to be found, and if they 
can prove their heirship/’ 

“And the family, here in England, is quite extinct, 
then?” 

“In the direct male line, yes. There may be cousins, 
or more distant relatives, but the father of Hugo Paisley 
had four children, the three eldest being boys, the young- 
est a girl. This girl married young and died childless. 
The elder son married, had one son, who did not live 
to become of age, and himself died before he had reached 
his forty-second year. Then the second son, Martin, 
inherited, and the last of his descendants died not quite 
two years ago, a widow and of middle age, I hear.” 

“And there have been no claimants?” 

“None, I am told. The case was advertised, both here 
and in the United States, but with no results as yet, 
unless — ” The solicitor stopped short and looked keenly 
at his visitor. “Something,” he said, “has surprised, and 
I could almost imagine, disappointed you.” 

“You are quite sure of this?” the other urged, unheed- 
ing their last words. “There have been no claimants, 
near or remote?” 

“Absolutely none.” The solicitor looked again, ques- 
tioningly, into the face of his vis-a-vis, and then some- 
thing like surprise came into his own. “Upon my soul, 
Mr. Myers, if I were to express an opinion upon your 
state of mind, I should say — yes, upon my word I should 


THE LAST STROKE 


206 

say that you were disappointed, absurd as that would 
seem.” 

“Disappointed — how?” 

“Because, by Jove, there have not been any applicants 
or claimants for Hugo Paisley’s money.” 

“Well, you wouldn’t be far wrong. I am surprised, at 
any rate, and I shall have to admit that this fact disar- 
ranges my plans, stops my hand, as it were.” He got up 
and took his hat from the table. “I came here with the 
intention of telling you a rather long story, in the hope 
of enlisting your interest, perhaps your aid. Now, I find 
that I must defer the story, and go at once and cable to 
friends at home.” 

He wasted no more words, but, promising to dine with 
his friend later, hurried back to his hotel, where he found 
a cablegram awaiting him. 

Previous to his departure from New York, Ferrars had 
given him a code by which to frame any needful cable 
messages, concerning the business of the journey, or the 
people whom it concerned.. The detective had warned 
all of the little group, now so closely bound together by 
mutual interest and in the same endeavor, to be con- 
stantly on guard against spies. 

“Unless I am greatly mistaken,” he said, “every effort 
will be made to keep in view all who are known to be 
connected with the Brierlys and their interests, and the 
fact that we are fighting an unknown quantity makes it 
the more necessary that we use double caution. We 
don’t want another ‘blow in the dark,’ any of us; and, 


THE LAST STROKE 207 

above all, we do not want to be followed across the water, 
and shadowed when there.” 

The wisdom of this was admitted, for, since the attack 
upon Robert Brierly, the unseen foe had become a bug- 
bear indeed to Hilda and Ruth; and they abetted Fer- 
rars in all possible ways, no longer questioning and with 
growing confidence in his leadership, in spite of the 
seeming absence of results. 

The cable message which Mr. Myers read was worded 
as follows: 

'‘Jas. Myers, Etc., Etc. 

‘‘H. has seen brother, who is watching affairs, unable 
to sail at present; letter follows. F.” 

These were the words, their meaning, according to 
the chart, was this: 


“Hilda has seen the western tourist. He is watching 



Half an hour later this message went speeding back 
to New York, and from thence westward: 


“To F. Ferrars, Etc., Etc. 

“Case all right; way clear; no claimants.” 

Which meant precisely what it said. 

A few days later two letters passed each other in mid- 
ocean. The one westward-bound read thus: 


208 


THE LAST STROKE 


‘'My Dear Ferrars: It will not take me long to tell all 
tiiat I have to tell concerning my mission. As I had 
anticipated, Mr. Wendell Haynes was more than ready 
to assist, and had the few facts I now give you already 
tabulated and awaiting me. Here they are in the order 
of your written queries : 

‘‘1st. The Paisley fortune is no hoax. There is a fine 
country seat, a factory, a town house, and various stocks, 
bonds and city investments amounting in all to above a 
million in American dollars. 

“2d. The English Paisleys are quite extinct, and the 
claim to the whole estate can surely be established by our 
claimant. 

“3d. And this may change all your plans possibly, 
and will startle you quite as much as it has me. There 
has been no effort made by anyone to claim or get pos- 
session of the property, and there is no clue to such a 
person if he, she or they exist. This balks us. How 
shall I proceed? Was ever a trial so completely hidden? 

“Mr. Playnes has placed himself, and his knowledge 
and resources — both being extensive — entirely at our dis- 
posal. If you still think well of the advertising plan, wire 
me. I am idle until I hear from you, and mean to 
employ myself doing London, which will render my part 
of the enforced waiting very pleasant. 

“By the by, I omitted to say that there have been but 
two ‘notices’ published. No unseemly haste, you observe. 
Awaiting your reply, I am Yours sincerely, 

“JAS. MYERS.” 

The letter which passed this midway was from Ferrars, 
and contained some information. 

“Dear Sir and Friend,” it began. 

“This finds us all in the city, the ladies at the flats, and 
myself in the old quarters, with which you have lately 


THE LAST STROKE 


209 


grown familiar. I fancied that we were quite snugly 
placed and could pass our period of waiting your sum- 
mons with some care of mind. Your house, which looks 
as untenanted and forbidding as possible, has been 
viewed, your care-taker, says, by a ‘party’ who, from the 
description, I take to be the man whom we have termed 
the ‘westerner,’ and who was seen for a day or two in 
Glenville. 

“But I have been rudely aroused from my comfortable 
sense of security. Yesterday Miss Grant and Miss Glid- 
den were down town, and were driven out of the avenue 
by a long political parade. Driving down a cross street 
their coachman turned up Clark street, only to find that 
another contingent was moving into that .street, at the 
upper corner of the block. It was moving toward them, 
and the man quickly reined his horses close to the curb 
to await the passage of the line. Directly opposite the 
carriage was the sign, so frequent upon that street, of 
three balls, and while Miss Hilda gazed with some idle 
curiosity at the, to her, strange sight, a man came out 
tucking something into his waistcoat as he stepped down 
upon the pavement, glanced about him, and, without 
seeming to observe the carriage, or its occupants, walked 
quickly away. She had seen him, twice at least, at the 
Glenville, and she knew him at once. She ordered the 
driver home by a round-about road, but she is certain 
that the man was the same whom we thought a spy or 
worse. The most disagreeable feature of this is that I 
have not yet seen the man, watch as I would, and if he is 
watching* us he has the advantage. If the worst comes to 
the worst we shall have to spread out and go aboard our 
boat, when the time comes, singly and in disguise. 

“Evening — 

“Since writing the above I have visited the place of the 
three gilt balls and have found at last, ‘a straight tip.’ 

“The fellow ha(f just redeemed a watch, pawned three 
days ago. It was a very pathetic story that wc got out 


210 


THE LAST STROKE 


of the w&rni-heartecl pawn broker. The young man was 
overjoyed to be able to claim his watch, so soon, for it 
was a keepsake given him by his dead father and he 
‘prized it beyond words.' The watch was a fine foreign 
made affair, and on the inside was engraved Charles A. 
‘Braily’ or ‘Brierly;’ he could not remember exactly. So, 
you see, the probability is that we have stumbled upon 
the watch stolen from Brierly’s room in Glenville, which 
the fellow first, pawned, from necessity perhaps, and 
then hastened to redeem, having taken the alarm in some 
way. He may even have been made aware that a 
description of the stolen watch and jewels had been 
lodged with the police. But all this is guessing. I am 
still confident that we shall find the solution of our prob- 
lem on the other side, of the Atlantic. Miss Glidden is 
still bent upon crossing, and your wife is her willing 
abettor. As for the fifth member of our party, he is at 
present like wax in our hands. Mind I say our, not 
mine alone. 

“There is nothing new from Glenville — how could 
there be — now? I need not tell you about ourselves; 
Mrs. Myers, I know, keeps you well up in our personal 
history. And so, good luck to you. From yours in good 
hope, 

“F. S. FERRARS.” 

Two days later this letter reached Ferrars. 

“Glenville, July 

“Ferris Grant, Esq. 

“Dear Sir: Yesterday, too late for the mail, I struck 
luck, at least I hope you will call it luck. It came 
through our ‘girl,’ that is, the young woman who pre- 
sides in my kitchen; she has a chum in the kitchen of the 
Glenville, and last evening they were exchanging con- 
fidences upon my back porch. It appears — I’m going to 


TPIE LAST STROKE 


211 


cut the story short — it appears that the night clerk is a 
kodak fiend, and a month or two ago the fellow, after 
being guyed about his poor work until he got rattled, 
vowed he’d contrive to get a picture of every person who 
set foot in that house for the next month to come, and 
that they should be the judges, as whether the pictures 
were good or not. Now it turns out, that our traveller 
from out west was one of the victims of this rash vow, 
and when I found it out I lost no time in getting that 
picture. The fellow likes to drive mv horses, and he 
always owes me a pretty good bill. I enclose to you this 
masterpiece of art. As you never saw him, to your 
knowledge, and as I only had one glimpse, you will be 
glad, I dare say, to be told that the Glenville House peo- 
ple think it a good likeness. 

“There’s nothing else in the way of news, and so, good 
luck to you, and a good voyage. 

“SAMUEL DORAN.” 

When Francis Ferrars had looked long at the picture 
inclosed in Doran’s letter he started, and ejaculated, in 
the short, jerky fashion in which he used habitually to 
commune with himself, “That face! — Fve seen it before 
— but where?” And then he suddenly seemed to see 
himself approaching the City Hall, and noting, as he 
walked on, this same face. 

It was the habit of the detective to see all that came 
within his range of vision, as he went about, but he 
might not have retained a memory so distinct if he had 
not, in leaving the very same place, encountered the 
man again, his position slightly shifted, but his attitude 
as before, that of one who waits, or watches. 

For some moments he looked thoughtfully at the pic- 


THE LAST STROKE 


m 

ture, which was that of a dark and bearded man wearing 
a double eyeglass, and then he placed it under a strong 
magnifier, and looked again. 

“Ah!” he finally exclaimed, “I was sure of it! The 
man is in disguise!” 

He took the picture at once to the ladies’ sitting room, 
and held it before the eyes of Hilda Grant. 

“Do you know it?” he asked. 

“That!” She caught it from, his hand, and held it 
toward the light. “It is the man whom — ” She paused, 
looking at Ferrars, inquiringly. 

“Whom you saw at the pawn shop?” 

“Yes. And—” 

“And at Glenville?” 

“Yes, at the hotel.” 

“And he was tall, you say, and broad-shouldered?” 

“Yes.” 

“Strong looking, in fact. As if — ” He checked him- 
self at sight of the intent look upon Ruth Glidden’s face, 
and she took the word from his lips. 

“As if,” she repeated, icily, “he could shoot straight, 
or strike a man down in the dark.” She arose and took 
the picture. “It is a bad face,” she said, with decision. 

“It is a disguised face,” replied Ferrars. “Neverthe- 
less, I think I shall know it, even without the beard and 
thick, bushy wig. Let me see?” He took a piece of 
paper, and a pencil, and placing the photograph before 
him, began to sketch in the head, working from the nose, 
mouth, eyes and facial outlines outward, and drawing. 


THE LAST STROKE 


21S 


instead of the thick, pointed beard, a thin-lipped mouth 
and smooth chin. Then, when the young ladies had 
studied this, he copied in the moustache of the photo- 
graph. 

‘Tt belongs to the face,” he observed, as he worked; 
“and probably grew there.” 

Late that night, as the detective sat alone in his room 
with a pile of just completed letters before him, he again 
drew the photograph from its envelope and studied it 
with wrinkling brow. 

‘Tf you are the man,” he said, with slow moving lips 
that grew into hard, stern lines as he spoke. “If you 
are the man I will find you ! If you have struck the first 
blow, and it’s very possible, you also struck the second. 
But the work is not yet finished, and, unless my patience 
and skill desert me, the last stroke shall be mine.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


A WOMAN’S HEART. 

The blow dealt Robert Brierly by the sham policeman 
had been a severe one, and at first it had been feared 
that he would recover, if at all, with his fine intellect 
dulled if not altogether shattered. But the best medical 
skill, aided by a fine constitution, and above all, the new 
impulse given his lately despondent spirits by the appear- 
ance at his bedside of Ruth Glidden, her eyes filled with 
love, and pity and resolve, all had combined to bring 
about good results and so, one evening, not quite two 
months after that blow in the dark, he found himself 
sitting in an easy chair, very pale and much emaciated 
but, save for this, and his exceeding bodily weakness, 
quite himself again. Indeed a more buoyant and hope- 
ful self than he had been for many a day, and with good 
reason. 

At first, and for one week, his mind had been a blank, 
then delirium had claimed and swayed him, until one day 
the crisis came, and with it a sudden clearing of mind and 
brain. 

Through it all Ruth had been beside him, and now she 
called the doctor aside and spoke with the grave frank- 
(214) 


THE LAST STROKE 


215 


ness of a woman whose all is at stake, and who knows 
there is no time for formalities. 

‘‘Doctor, tell me the truth. He will know me now, 
and he must not see me unless — unless I tell him I have 
come to stay. Will a shock, such a shock, render his 
chances more critical? The surprise and — ” She turned 
away her face. “Doctor, you know!” 

Then the good physician, who had» nursed her through 
her childish ills, and closed her father’s eyes in death, 
put a fatherly hand upon h^r shoulder. “There must be 
absolutely no emotion,” he said. “But a happy surprise, 
just now, if it comes with gentleness, and firmness — that 
tender firmness to which the weak so instinctively turns 
— will do him good, not harm. Only, it must be for just 
a moment, and he must not speak. My dear, I believe I 
can trust yon.” 

He called away the nurse and beckoned Ruth to fol- 
low him. Then he went straight to the bedside, where 
the sick man lay, so pale and deathlike, beneath his linen 
bandages. 

“Robert," he said, slowly. “Listen, and do not speak. 
I bring you a friend who will not be denied; you know 
who it is; you must not attempt to speak, Rob, for your 
own sake. If I thought you would not obey me I would 
shut her out even now.” And with the last word upon 
his lips he was gone and Ruth stood in his place. 

Involuntarily the wounded man opened his lips, but 
she put a soft finger upon them, and shook her head. 
She was ver}' pale, but the voice, which was the merest 


216 


THE LAST STROKE 


miiruniur, yet how distinct to his ears, was quite con- 
trolled. 

“Robert, you are not to speak. I have promised that 
for us both. I have t^een near you since the first, and I 
am going to stay until — until I can trust you to others. 
And, Rob., you must get well, for my sake. You must, 
dear, or you’ll make me wear mourning all my days for 
the only lover I haveiever had. Don’t fail me, my dear.” 
She bent above him, placed her soft, cool hand upon his 
own, pressed a kiss upon his brow, and, the next 
moment the doctor stood in her place, and was saying, 
“Don’t be uneasy, Rob., old man; that was a real live 
dream, which will come back daily, so long as you are 
good, and remember, sir, you have two tyrants now.” 

And so it proved. 

When Brierly was at last fit to be removed to that safe 
and comfortable haven — not too far from the doctor’s 
watchful care — which they fictitiously named the South, 
Ruth bade him good bye one day, with a tear in her eye, 
and a smile upon her lip. 

“You will soon be a well man now,” she said to him. 
“And when that time comes, and the tyrant Ferrars per- 
mits it, you will come to me, of course.” And with the 
rare meaning smile he knew and loved so well, and so 
well understood, she left him, to bestow her cheering 
presence upon Hilda Grant and Glenville. 

And now, on a fine mid-summer night, thinner than 
of old, and paler, with a scar across his left temple, and a 
languor of body which he was beginning to find irksome 


THE LAST STROKE 


217 


because of the revived activity of the lately clouded and 
heavy brain, Brierly sat in a pleasant upper room of a 
certain hospitable suburban villa, the, only south he had 
known since they bore him away from the Myers home, 
and whirled him away from the city on a suburban 
train, to stop, within the same hour, and leave him, safely 
guarded, in this snug retreat. 

Opposite him sat Ferrars, and they had been talking 
earnestly for the past hour. 

“You see,” the detective was saying, “I had found this 
series of tiny clues, and thought all was plain sailing, 
until that mysterious boy paid his visit to your brother’s 
room and left almost as much as he took away. That 
forced me to reconstruct my theory somewhat, and set 
me to wondering just what status Miss Grant held in the 
game our unknown assassin was playing. For I 
will do the young lady, and myself, the justice to say 
that I never for a moment doubted her. That fling at 
her gave me, however, a key to the character of the 
unknown.” He was silent a moment, then, “After all,” 
he said, “it was you who gave me my first suggestion of 
the truth.” 

“How? when I had no conception of it?” 

“By telling of that attack upon your brother the win- 
ter before his coming here.” 

“I do not recall it.” 

“I suppose not, but in telling me of your brothers 
career, before his going to Glenville, you spoke of an 
accident which occurred to him; an accident which was 


218 


THE LAST STROKE 


eventually the cause of his going to Glenville. I made 
a note of this, and, later, questioned Mr. Alyers. He told 
me of the attack at the mouth of an alley. How two men 
assailed your brother, and only his presence of mind in 
shouting as he struck, and striking hard and with skilled 
fists, saved him from death at their hands; how he 
warded off, and held, the fellow with the bludgeon, but 
was cut by the other’s knife. I might not have been so 
much impressed by these details, perhaps, had I not 
learned that your brother was returning from a visit of 
charity to the sick, a visit which he had paid regularly 
for some time. Then I thought I saw light upon the 
subject.” 

‘"Yes.” Brierly bent toward the detective, a keen light 
in his eyes. ‘T have been very dull, Ferrars, but I have 
had time for much thinking of late. I think that, at last, 
I begin to understand.” 

‘'And what do you understand?’^ A slow smile was 
overspreading the detective’s face. 

“That my brother and I have had a common enemy. 
That nothing short of both our lives will satisfy him; 
that the attack upon Charley, nearly a year ago, was the 
beginning — that, having taken his life, they are now upon 
a still hunt for mine — and that, but for you, they wouUl 
have completed their work that evening when, chafing, 
like the fool I was, under restraint, I set out alone, and 
met—” 

“A policeman.” Ferrars’ lips were grave, but his eyes 
smiled. “It was a close squeak, Brierly. The fellow very 


THE LAST STROKE 


219 


nearly brained you. And now/’ and he drew his chair 
closer, and his face at once became grave almost to stern- 
ness, “we want to end this game; there is too much risk 
in it for you.” 

“You need not fear for me, Ferrars. From this 
moment I go forward, or follow, as you will, blindly ; you 
have only to command. What must I do?” 

“Prepare to go aboard the Lucunia five days from date 
in the disguise of what do you imagine?” 

“A navvy possibly.” 

“No. I know the boat’s captain, luckily, and I know 
that a party of Salvation Army officers are to sail that 
day for England. We will go abroad, all of us, in the 
salvation uniform and doff it later, if we choose.” 

“You say all of us?” 

“I mean Mrs. Myers, who goes to join her husband 
and see London and Paris; Miss Glidden, who goes 
because she wills to go and because she believes that 
Miss Grant can be best diverted from her sorrow, and 
strengthened for her future life, by such a journey Miss 
Grant, ergo, and our two selves.” He leaned back and 
- watched his vis-a-vis narrowly from underneath droop- 
ing lashes. He was giving his client’s docility a severe 
test, and he knew it. 

As for Robert, he remained so long silent that the 
detective, relaxing his gaze, resumed. 

“I won’t ask you to take too much upon trust, Brierly. 
Our present position, briefly told, is this. We are near- 
ing the climax, but we cannot force it. One point of the 


220 


THE LAST STROKE 


game remains still in the enemy’s hands. And the scene 
is shifted to England — to London, to be literal. The next 
move must be made by the other side. It will be made 
over there, and we must be at hand when the card is 
played. If all ends as I hope and anticipate, your pres- 
ence in London will be imperative, almost. As for the 
ladies. Miss Grant’s presence may be needed, as a wit- 
ness perhaps, and certainly nothing could be better for 
her than the companionship of her friend, Miss Ruth, 
and the motherly kindness of Mrs. Myers, just now.” 

Robert Brierly turned his face away, and clinched his 
hands in desperation. He was thinking of Ruth, and an 
inward battle was raging between strong love and stub- 
born pride. 

“And now,” went on the other, as if all unheeding, 
“concerning the disguises. I have told you of the person 
seen by our spies at the Glenville House, for a brief 
time?” 

Brierly bowed assent. 

“He, this man was only described to me, but seen by 
Miss Grant.” 

“Oh!” Brierly started. 

“Lately, we have received, through the good offices of 
Mr. Doran, a picture of this man — it’s growing late and 
I’ll give the details at another time — I have believed this 
man to be one of your enemies, quite possibly the one.” 

“One of them?” 

“Yes. And large and muscular enough he is, to have 
been your assailant, and — ” 


THE LAST STROKE 


221 


‘‘And my brother’s murderer?” 

“In my opinion they are not the same. But we must 
not go into this. Someone has kept us — that is, yourself, 
Miss Grant and myself, in the character of her cousin — 
under constant watch, almost. There must have been 
tools, but this man I believe to be the chief, on this side.” 

“Great heavens! How many are there, then?” 

“Honestly, I do not yet know. The answer to that is 
in Europe. But this man — he has been shadowed 
since Miss Grant saw him on Clark street — has already 
sailed for England. My man escorted him, after a mod- 
est and retiring fashion, to New York, and saw him 
embark. I propose that we go east by different routes. 
The ladies one way, you and I by another. They will 
hardly imagine us all flitting by water, and their spies 
will hardly be prepared for a sea voyage, even should 
one of us be ‘piped’ to the wharf. Of one thing I must 
warn you; you are not to set foot in London, nor to put 
yourself in evidence anywhere as a tourist, until you are 
assured that you may walk abroad in safety. To know 
you were in England would be to render your opponents 
desperate, indeed.” 

“You have only to command. I am as wax in the 
potter’s hand henceforth. And now I ask you on the 
eve of this long journey why my brother and myself are 
thus hunted. How we stand in the way of these enemies 
of ours I cannot imagine.” 

“That I am- ready to tell you, since you ask no more. 
You stand between your enemies and a fortune.” 

“Impossible!” 


222 


THE LAST STROKE 


“I knew you would say that. But wait.’^ Ferrars rose 
abruptly. ‘‘I shall not see you again before we leave for 
New York,” he said, taking up his hat. “Come with me 
across the way, I must say good-bye to the ladies; 
they—” 

“Do they understand?” 

“Yes.” 

Mrs. Myers and her two charges were pleasantly 
bestowed just across the street, in one of the cozey and 
tree-encircled cottages of the aristocratic little suburb, 
in which the party had found a retreat. And all three 
were still upon the broad piazza when the two men 
appeared. 

No other occupants of the house were visible, and 
before long Robert Brierly found that, by accident or 
design the detective, Mrs. Myers, and Hilda, had with- 
drawn to the further end of the long veranda, and that 
Ruth Glidden had crossed to his side, and now stood 
before him, leaning lightly against a square pillar, and so 
near that he could not well rise without disturbing her 
charming pose. 

Before he could open his lips she was speaking. 

“Robert, don’t get up. Please do not. There is some- 
thing I must say to you. I have seen the trouble, the 
anxiety in your face to-night. I know what Mr. Ferrars 
has been saying to you ; at least I can guess, and I under- 
stand.” 

“Ruth!” 


THE LAST STROKE 


223 


“Don’t speak. Let me finish, Rob. If I didn’t know 
you so thoroughly, if the whole of your big, noble heart 
had not been laid bare to me, as never before, during 
your illness, I should not dare; would lack the courage 
to say what I will say, for your sake, as well as for mine." 
She caught her breath sharply and, before he could 
command the words he would have spoken, she hurried 
on. 

“Don’t think that I do not know how you look upon 
this journey abroad, in my company, and now — ” She 
paused again. “This is very hard to say, Rob., and I 
am not saying it well, but you will not misunderstand 
me, I know that; and I can’t lose your friendship, Rob., 
dear, and the pleasure your company will be to me, if we 
can set out understanding ourselves and each other. You 
have let Charlie’s death and the money loss this search 
may bring you, crush out all hope, and you have been 
steeling yourself to give me up; to forget me. But do 
you think I will let you do this? I know your pride, 
dear. I love you for it. But why must it separate us 
utterly? You are not the only man in this world who 
must win his way first, and whose wife must wait. I have 
waited, and I shall wait, always if need be. But it need 
not be. You will be the King Cophetua to my beggar 
maid yet. Oh, I know. I am afraid of nothing but your 
horrible self doubt, your fear of being — ” 

“Of being called a fortune hunter, Ruth.” 

“Well, you shall not be called that sir knight of the 
proud, proud crest. Listen! You must be to me the 


224 


THE LAST STROKE 


Robert of old; not avoiding me, but my friend who 
understands me. We are both free, to go abroad, and 
with a chaperone, as we are going, would not be 
de rigueur otherwise; and this subject is not to be 
referred to again, until the quest upon which we are start- 
ing — yes, I say we — is at an end. 

“Who knows what may happen between our going 
and our home-coming? At the worst, I am still your 
friend, and shall never be more to any other man.” She 
was about to move away, but he sprang up and caught 
her hands. 

“Ruth! You have given me new life. And you have 
shamed me. It is of you I have thought, when I have 
tried to tear myself away and leave you free to choose 
another.” 

“Robert, for shame. Shall you ‘choose another’ then?” 

“Never! You know that!” 

“If I did not I should never have spoken as I have 
just now.” 

“But there are so many who might give you every- 
thing.” 

“There is only one who can give me my heart’s 
desire.” 

“Ruth, my darling, if I were rich, or if you were poor, 
no man should ever win you from me. But the world 
'must never call Ruth Glidden’s husband a fortune 
hunter.” 

“It never shall. Never!” 

“And so, you see — ” 


THE LAST STROKE 225 

“I see the folly of what I have said. What do we care 
for dame Grundy? And why should you and I be foolish 
hypocrites, deceiving no one? In my heart of hearts I 
have been your promised wife always. I think I have the 
little ring with which we were betrothed when we were 
ten years old. We will go abroad as lovers, Rob., and if 
you cannot offer me a fortune — it must be a very large 
one to satisfy me — before we return, I shall give all mine 
to the London poor, and you will have to support me 
the rest of my days. What folly, Robert, what wicked- 
ness, to let mere money matters come between you and 
mer 


CHAPTER XXL 


QUARRELSOME HARRY. 

The Lucailia had been in port forty-eight hours, and 
Mrs. Myers and her party had been snugly quartered in 
one of London’s most charming rural nooks, at Hamp- 
ton Court, with Robert Brierly close at hand, before 
Ferrars ventured to visit the city. 

Mr. Myers had discreetly remained in London, going 
from thence to meet his friends at Hampton Court, but 
Ferrars, for reasons which he did not explain, went to 
the city, as soon as he had assured himself of the comfort 
and safety of his party, this assurance including the pro- 
vision of a watchful aid, who kept guard whenever Rob- 
ert Brierly, himself now well convinced of the need of 
caution, ventured abroad. 

Leaving Mr. Myers thus to enjoy an evening with his 
wife and friends, Ferrars hastened to “the city,” where 
every stone seemed familiar, and many faces were those 
of friends, or foes, well known and well remembered. 
To escape recognition his own countenance had been 
simply but sufficiently hidden behind a disguise of snowy 
hair and rubicund visage, both assumed as soon as he 
had parted from the group at Hampton Court, for Fer- 
rars realized that the battle was now on, and he had no 
(226) 


THE LAST STROKE 


227 


idea of giving the foe the chance possibility of an 
encounter. He v/as well known at Scotland Yard, as 
well as to the chief of the department of police, and it 
was to one of these officials that he made his way, for he 
had two reasons of his own for hastening on, in advance 
of the party. 

Not long before leaving the ‘‘States,” he had received 
a dainty notelet. It could not have been called a letter. 
It came through the hands of Doctor Barnes, and it was 
signed, “Lotilia K. Jamieson.” 

It is late afternoon when Ferrars reaches Oxford street, 
after his interview with several official personages, dur- 
ing which he has bestowed upon each a number of type- 
written cards, bearing what seems to be a brief descrip- 
tive list, and as many photographs, faithful and enlarged 
copies of the “snap shot” furnished him by the hand of 
Samuel Doran. 

He alights from an omnibus, at the end of Regent 
street, and stands, for a moment, looking down Oxford 
street. He is not in haste, for he lets cabs and omnibuses 
rattle by him, or stand, waiting for fares, and walks 
slowly on and on. A mile and a quarter of shops, that 
is Oxford street, but Ferrars foots it sturdily. Past the 
Circus, beyond the region of Soho, and he slackens 
his pace and consults a tiny memorandum book. Who 
ever saw Frank herrars produce a letter oi card, foi 
reference, in the streets of a crowded city? Then he 
smiles and paces on. 


228 


THE LAST STROKE 


Bloomsbury. He is walking slowly now, and under 
his low-drawn hat his eyes are very alert. 

And now he is in that portion of Bloomsbury where, 
earlier, very early in the century, the wealthy, and those 
of high degree resided. It is comfortable and middle 
class now, and our pedestrian passes a certain pleasant 
semi-detached house — not large, but eminently respect- 
able — with a stealthy, lingering glance, pausing, before 
he has walked quite beyond it, as if to note some object 
of fleeting interest. Two or three times, within the hour, 
he passes that house, now on this side, now on that; once 
on the top of an omnibus, once in a cab, and driving very 
slowly, and as close as possible. 

It is fairly dusk when he slowly ascends the well 
scrubbed steps, with the reluctant air of a man by no 
means sure of himself. He carries a small package 
beneath his arm, and a card between the fingers of his 
left hand, to which he shifts the package as he rings the 
bell. 

‘T beg your pardon, young Miss.” It is a sour-faced 
damsel of uncertain age who melts perceptibly under this 
adjective. ‘‘Will you tell me if Mrs. — Mrs. — ” He peers 
near-sightedly at the card he holds, and slowly pro- 
nounces a name. 

“No, sir; this is not the place.” 

“But, doesn’t the lady stop here. Miss? It’s some’res 
in this here block, and somehow they’ve forgot the num- 
ber, you see. Is there a lady guest maybe, or a boarder 
belike?” 


THE LAST STROKE 


229 


But the maid, quite melted now, shakes her head, and 
tells him that beside her mistress, whom she names, and 
her mistress’ niece, who stops with them, ‘‘off and on,” 
there are no ladies in the house. 

The detective blunders on down the street, and, when 
the lamps are lit he passes the house again. The lamps 
are lighted in the little dining room now, and through a 
window which projects upon the corner, he can see a 
table set for two. And now at last he is rewarded, for a 
maid enters and places something upon the table; a lady 
follows, glances at the table, walks to the window, and 
turns, with a quick, imperious gesture, toward the maid; 
a little lady, with a fair face, pale, fleecy hair and wearing 
a flowing silken gown of some soft violet shade. She 
sweeps past the maid and seats herself at the head of the 
table, while the young person — it is the same who 
attended so lately at the door — comes forward to close 
the curtain. Slowly it is drawn together, shutting in the 
lights, the table and the violet-clad figure, but not until 
the watcher outside has caught a glimpse of a man, tall 
and, yes, handsome, in a dark fierce fashion, who is 
entering at the door on the other side of the room. 

The watcher passes on. He has seen, once more, the 
woman who has, according to his own confession, 
aroused in him “a profound interest.” And he has also 
seen, whom and what? A brother? A lover? A rival, 
perhaps? Ferrars hails a passing cab now, and is driven 
swiftly towards his room in the Strand, and as he rolls 


m 


THE LAST STROKE 


along, this comment, which may mean much or little, 
passes his lips. 

“So my little lady has doffed her mourning. I won- 
der what that may mean?” 

“I’m very sorry, Ferrars, but I fear there’s a great dis- 
appointment in store for you.” 

“A disappointment! How? And in what respect, 
Mr. Myers?” 

Ferrars was seated opposite Mr. Myers in the office 
of Wendell Haynes, solicitor, in Middle Temple Lane, 
where he had hastened on the morning after his little 
adventure in Bloomsbury, and so prompt and eager had 
he been that he had encountered the American lawyer 
at the very threshold, Mr. Myers having just arrived, 
with equal haste and promptness, from Hampton Court. 

Solicitor Haynes and the English detective were not 
unknown to each other, and when they had exchanged 
greetings, the solicitor left the others together in his 
inner office. He was, by this time, fully acquainted with 
all the facts, so far as they were known to Mr. Meyers, 
and he left them with a promise to rejoin them soon, 
when they should have compared notes and gone over the 
ground already known to the busy solicitor. 

There was a look of suppressed eagerness upon the 
face of Ferrars, as he seated himself opposite the shrewd 
American lawyer. Flis face, his manner, his very silence 
and alertness as he held himself erect upon his chair, a 
picture of calm force, long suppressed, but now out of 


THE LAST' STROKE 


231 


leash and ready for anything — anything* except inac- 
tion ; and that, his very attitude seemed to say was past. 

Mr. Myers had waited a moment, after they were left 
alone together, for Ferrars to speak the first word, but 
tlie latter only sat still and waited, and the lawyer, with 
characteristic directness, spoke straight to the point. He 
had what he felt to be, bad news to impart, and he did 
not delay or play with words in the doing it. 

But if he had expected disappointment or any change 
to cross that keenly questioning face, he looked in vain. 
Ferrars only sat leaning slightly toward him, waited a 
moment, and repeated his last words. 

“In what manner? How disappointed?" And then, 
as the lawyer still hesitated he went on. “You find the 
case as it should be, eh?” 

“The case! Oh, yes!” 

“Are there any flaws?” 

“No,” broke in the lawyer. 

“Any unexpected delays?” 

“No.” 

“Any new claimants?” 

“No, Ferrars. The Hugo Paisley will case is one of 
the simplest and clearest of its kind. The last incum- 
bent surely must have had a wonderfully clear idea of 
how to do the thing lie meant to do. Once the claim is 
proven, and he makes that work easy, there need be no 
delays, no chancery, no holding back for big fees. The 
agents in the case are paid according to their expedition, 
and have every incentive to haste. Wdth the proofs in 


232 


THE LAST STROKE 


hand the heir could step at once into his fortune, a mat- 
ter of £200,000.’^ 

‘'An American millionaire, he!” Ferrars smiled. 
“That, then, is quite as it should be, especially as the 
young lady is here. Well, then, you advertised, accord- 
ing to your report?” 

“Yes, we advertised. A very craftily worded docu- 
ment calculated to arouse the dilatory claimants to 
prompt action.” 

“And, did it not?” 

“It did, yes.” 

“Then, in heaven’s name why must I be disappointed 
in any way?” 

“Because I fear the claimant — we have seen but one — 
is not the person you hoped to find.” 

Ferrars actually smiled. “Describe the person,” he 
said. 

Without speaking, the lawyer held out to him across 
the table a visiting card, a lady’s card, correct according 
to the London mode of the hour, and bearing a name 
which Ferrars read aloud with no sign of emotion in his 
face. 

“Mrs. Gaston Latham.” He looked up with the card 
still between his fingers. “Is she the solitary heir?” 

“No; there are two children; girls of twelve and nine.” 

“And her proofs?” 

“Seem to be perfect, making her the next in line of 
succession after — ” 


“After the Brierlys, of course.” 


THE LAST STROKE 


233 


Mr. Myers nodded and the detective looked down 
again at the address upon the card. 

‘‘Lives in the city, I see! Are the children with her 
here?” 

“Only the younger, I am told. The elder has ‘an 
infirmity,’ and is at present in an institution. It seems 
a great cross to the mother; in fact her anxiety and dis- 
tress, because of this child, have made her almost indif- 
ferent about this business of the fortune. In short — ” 
And here the lawyer glanced askance at his vis a vis. 
“I’m afraid she is not the — the sort of claimant you have 
expected to see. And there seems to be no one of the 
other sex in the family.” 

“Well, well!” Ferrars threw himself back in the big 
office chair, assuming an easy and almost careless atti- 
tude. 

“Tell me all about her, Myers. Is she old, or young? 
Handsome or not?” 

The face of the lawyer was overspread with a cynical 
smile. He had expected to see disappointment, constern- 
ation, perhaps, in the face of the detective, when he 
heard that the English claimant to the Paisley fortune 
was a woman lorn and lone. His heart was in the work 
they were engaged upon. Robert Brierly’s interests 
were his own; but, still, this cool, emotionless detective, 
whom he liked well, had more than once piqued and puz- 
zled him. He believed that Ferrars was quite prepared 
to meet with, and hear of, quite another sort of claimant. 


234 


THE LAST STROKE 


and he was now looking to see him, at last stirred out of 
his provoking calm. 

“Mrs. Gaston Latham is not a claimant to whom one 
could object, upon the ground of unfitness. She would 
make a very handsome and gracious dispenser of the 
Paisley thousands.” 

“Too bad that she will never get them!” And Ferrars 
smiled. 

“She is a woman of medium height, and rather — well 
— plump, and while her hair is snowy white, she does 
not look a day over forty. She has the fine, fresh Eng- 
lish color, blue eyes, that require the aid of strong eye- 
glasses, and a voice that is very high-pitched for an Eng- 
lishwoman, and that sounds, I am sorry to say — for she’s 
really a very intelligent and winning little lady^ — some- 
what affected at times. She dresses in soft grays and 
pale lavenders, as you may be interested to know.” And 
here the lawyer smiled broadly. 

“That,” commented Ferrars with no cessation of his 
own gravely indifferent manner, “for a ‘plump’ woman, 
is a great mistake. A plump person should never assume 
light colors.” And then the eyes of the two men met, 
and over each face there slowly crept a smile that grew 
into a laugh. 

“Upon my soul, Ferrars,” exclaimed the elder, “I 
believe you have heard of this Mrs. Latham!” 

“Not to make a mystery of it, Mr. Myers, Eli explain 
that I have heard of Mrs. Latham. But, I give you my 


THE LAST STROKE 


235 


word, I did not look to find her the claimant. You have 
heard us, some, or all, speak of Mrs. Jamieson!” 

The lawyer nodded and a smile of meaning crossed his 
face. 

“Well, I have lately learned that she might be found 
at a certain number in Bloomsbury, and addressed, in 
case of her temporary absence, in care of Mrs. Gaston 
Latham, an old family friend.” 

‘T see!” The lawyer was silent a moment. Then he 
looked the detective frankly in the face. “To be per- 
fectly candid with you, Ferrars,” he said, “I have thought 
that you looked to see a different sort of claimant, more 
than one perhaps, and that this lady could not, by any 
possibility, be the expected one. I fancied this would 
trouble, perhaps hinder, if not quite balk you.” 

“Honestly, Myers, I have wondered not a little what 
sort of claimant I should meet, and I am neither sur- 
prised nor disappointed. I see what is in your mind ; you 
looked to see the conclusion of the game here and soon, 
eh?” 

“I admit it.” 

“And I hoped it. I do hope it. We must strike our 
final blow now if ever. We can depend upon Mr. 
Haynes.” 

“Entirely.” 

“And you have fully enlightened him?” 

“To the extent of my own knowledge.” 

“Then let’s call him in, and I will put my cards upon 


236 


THE LAST STROKE 


the table. We shall need his help, but I’ll explain that 
later.” 

When the English solicitor had joined them, Ferrars 
briefly reviewed the events surrounding and connected 
with the death of Charles Brierly, and the attempt upon 
Robert’s life; and when he was sure that they under- 
stood each other, thus far, and that the English lawyer 
was deeply interested in the case and had committed 
himself to it, he summed up the situation thus. 

‘‘You will see, of course, that I might make a bold 
stroke and arrest my suspects at once; or, at least, as 
soon as we could lay our hands upon them, but the case 
is a complicated one, and having it in my power to make 
our quarry commit themselves altogether, I do not 
intend to leave them a loophole of escape. I have not 
been entirely open with you; you must take my word 
for some things. I have put the Scotland Yard men on 
the lookout for our man; I do not know his name, but I 
think they will have no trouble in finding him, by acting 
upon my hints. There is much which even I do not 
understand, in his connection with the case. I do not 
believe him to be the master spirit, and I want to let 
him have his fling over here.” 

“Do you mean,” broke in the solicitor, “that you do 
not intend to arrest him, as soon as found?” 

“He must be kept under close espionage, when traced, 
but so long as he does not leave London, he must be 
left quite free to come and go at will. There is much 
that is still hazy, concerning his appearance in Glenville, 


THE LAST STROKE 


237 


and I look to him to lead me to another — to the other, 
in fact/’ 

‘‘And,” urged the solicitor, “do you feel safe in ven- 
turing this? May he not shun those places?” 

“Listen ! The man’s name I do not know, but I know 
what he is. There are plotting villains in this world, who 
might scheme forever and still be often penniless. This 
man is a gambler. In Chicago he pawned the watch 
stolen from Charles Brierly’s room, knowing that there 
was risk in so doing, but desperate for the money it 
would bring. He won soon after, and aware of dan- 
ger ahead, for he had good reason to think himself 
followed over there, he at once redeemed his pledge. He 
doe5 not dream that we are here, and the finances at 
headquarters, I have reason to think, are running low. 
To play he must have money, and when he has lost he 
will either pledge or sell the remainder of the jewels 
stolen from the writing desk. They were of considerable 
value, as I have discovered.” 

“Ah!” Mr. Myers looked up quickly. 

“Oh, that’s no secret. Hilda Grant saw the jewels, and 
knew their value.” 

“May I ask why you presume that all the stolen jewels 
are in this man’s possession?” asked the solicitor. 

“Because they were stolen, in the first place, not for 
plunder’s sake, but to mislead; and the party who took 
them lost no time, I am sure, in passing them on, and out 
of the town. It is hardly likely they would have divided 
them.” 


238 


THE LAST STROKE 


“Then you look upon this man as in truth little more 
than a cat’s paw?” 

“In some respects, yes. He does not take this view, 
however, and now I want to hear all about your interview 
with this lady, Mrs. Gaston Latham.” 

“According to your instructions,” said Mr. Myers, “I 
remained in the background. Mr. Haynes was the 
spokesman.” 

Ferrars turned toward the solicitor, who began at once. 

“There is really very little to tell. Of course I quite 
understand that the claimant was to be held of¥, and the 
next interview to take place in your presence.” 

Ferrars shook his head. “I fear we must change our 
plans somewhat. Tne fact is,” here he glanced up and 
met the eye of Mr. Haynes, a queer smile lighting his 
own, “I have found just now, that I knew a lady who 
seems to be a friend of this Mrs. Gaston Latham, and an 
inmate of her house in Bloomsbury. Now it might* be a 
little awkward for me to appear before my — the lady in 
question, as the opponent of her friend. In fact, I must 
not appear in the matter — not yet, at any rate. And, 
upon my word, Mr. Myers, since our friend has taken up 
the role of Spokesman-in-chief, you and I will both stand 
aside, just at first. May we count upon you?” 

‘T shall need some coaching, of course,” suggested 
the solicitor. 

“Of course; and that you shall have at once. But first, 
when is she to call again?” 

“When I give the word.” 


THE LAST STROKE 


239 


*^Give it at once, then; to-morrow at two P. M. Tell 
her to come alone. You can arrange for us to hear the 
interview, I dare say?’’ 

The solicitor swung about in his big chair. “You see 
those two doors?” he asked, quite needlessly pointing at 
the two doors, at opposite corners of the inner wall. 
“They open upon my private chamber of horrors. 
Formerly there was a partition, and two smaller rooms. 
The partition has been removed. In the morning I will 
have my man move that tall bookcase across the- door 
at the right. The door, behind it, can then stand open, 
and you can hear very well. I will have my desk and the 
chairs moved nearer that corner. Will that do?” 

“Excellently; only I must see the lady in some way.” 

“Then, if you will come in some slight disguise, you 
can sit at my clerk’s desk, over by that window, with 
your back to the light. I will dismiss you, and you can 
go out to join Mr. Myers, through the left-hand door.” 

They inspected the inner room, and Ferrars, guaging 
the distance with his quick eye, made a suggestion or 
two regarding the placing of the desks, and the visitor’s 
chair, and then they sat down to discuss the part the 
solicitor must take in the coming interview. 

That evening when Ferrars strolled into his room after 
an early dinner, he found a note from a certain police 
inspector, in whose charge he had left the hunt, or rather, 
the watch for the suspected stranger. The note con- 
tained a summons, brief and peremptory, and he hastened 
to present himself before Inspector Hirsch. 


240 


THE LAST STROKE 


*We have found your man/’ were the inspector’s first 
words, when the detective was left alone with him. “And 
it was an easy trick, too, for all your fears to the contrary. 
I tell you, Ferrars, when a sport who lives only to gam- 
ble and bet on horses, comes back to London after any 
long absence, he’s sure to go to one of a dozen flush 
places I can name, as soon as he can get there. And, if 
he’s heeled he’ll go to them all. Just give him time. I 
didn’t neglect the houses of mine uncle, but I also sent 
a squad around to these other places.” 

“And you found him?” 

“We found him. And that’s not all. We have found 
a name for him.” 

“Good! What is it?” 

“He goes by the name of Quarrelsome Harry, among 
his kind. Harry Levey is the way he writes it.” 

Ferrars pondered a moment. “M — m — Fm not sur- 
prised,” he said finally. “I was sure he was that kind. 
What’s his specialty besides being quarrelsome?” 

“Cards, and crooked bookmaking, I fancy. But 
Smithson, who seems to have known him of old, says 
he’s up to most sorts of shady business, when his luck’s 
down.” 

And the inspector went on describing the search for 
Quarrelsome Harry, who had been “spotted” at a time 
when he was in a fair way to prove his right to his sobri- 
quet. For he had been losing money all the previous 
night, and had sought his room in a dingy house in Soho, 
in a very black mood. 


THE LAST STROKE 


241 


Here, so the shadow had reported, Quarrelsome 
Harry had remained until late noonday, emerging then 
to lunch at a coffee house, and to take his way, for what 
purpose the watcher could only guess, to Houndsditch, 
where he seemed quite at home among the Jews in sev- 
eral cafes, and ‘^club rooms,” where he tarried for a 
greater or shorter time, and seemed to be looking for 
some one ; someone, whom he did not find, it would seem, 
for he left the neighborhood, as he came, alone and with a 
lowering face. 

“Looking for a loan. Til wager,” declared Ferrars. 
By to-morrow he’ll be visiting my uncle. I’ll have to 
leave him to your men to-night, T suppose, Hirsch, but 
to-morrow I will go on guard, myself.” 

He made a note of the Soho street and number, where 
Harry Levey had lodged, and then he took out his cigar 
case and the two men sat down together to talk about 
London, and compare notes. For they were old 
acquaintances, and could find much to say, one to the 
other. 

An hour later, when Ferrars arose to go, the inspector 
looked at his watch. 

“By jove, Frank, you don’t mind my calling you that, 
eh? It seems like old times, half a dozen years ago. Say, 
it’s almost the hour for the Swiss to report. He’s on duty 
now looking after your man ; wait till he comes in. Hob- 
son must already have gone to relieve him, if he can 
find him. Harry was airing himself along the embank- 
ment when last heard from.” 


242 


THE LAST STROKE 


It was nearing ten o’clock, but Ferrars resumed his 
seat and his cigar very willingly, and Inspector Hirsch 
set out a very pretty decanter of something which he 
described, while pouring it into the glasses, as both 
light and pleasant.” 

At half past ten ^‘the Swiss,” as rank an Englishman 
as ever ignored his h’s, came in beaming. 

He had left “ ’Arry,” as he familiarly called the man 
he had been set to guard, in a front seat in the gallery of 
the Vaudeville theater, in the Strand, and Hobson was 
sitting just three seats away and nearest the “halley.” 

“E’s got a sort of green lookin’ young duffer with 
’im,” went on the Swiss, “and they seem to be goin’ to 
’ave a night of it.” 

Ferrars got up quickly. “Come out with me, 
inspector,” he said. “I may want you to call off your 
man. And, say, let me have one of your badges. It may 
come handy.” 


CHAPTER XXIL 


IN NUMBER NINE. 

As the inspector and Ferrars approached the theater 
they were obliged to slacken their pace for, although the 
performance must have been well on its way, there was 
a crowd about the entrance. 

‘Tt’s a first night for some new ‘stars,’ now that I 
think of it, and you’ll find a lot of the sporting gentry 
here whenever a new and pretty face, that has had the 
right kind of advertising, is billed. That accounts for 
our friend’s presence here, of course,” said the inspector.. 

They made slowly, their way toward the entrance, and 
as they reached it, and were about to pass within the 
brilliantly lighted vestibule. Inspector Hirsch grasped his 
companion’s arm and pulled him back within the shadow 
of a friendly bill board. 

“H’sh!” he whispered. “Here’s Hobson!” He drew 
Ferrars still further out of the crowd. “He must have 
lost his man, or else — hold on, Ferrars; I’ll speak to 
him.” And he glided into the crowd and Ferrars saw 
him pause by the side of a flashily dressed young fellow 
who seemed utterly absorbed in trying to revive a 
smoldering cigar stump. He gave no sign of recogni- 
tion, as the inspector paused beside him, and seemed 
(243) 


244 


THE LAST STROKE 


engrossed with his cigar and his own thoughts, but 
Inspector Hirsch was back in a moment with a grin upon 
his face. 

“Your man has tired of the Vaudeville,” he said, “and 
Hobson got close enough behind them — the other chap’s 
still with him, too, — to hear them planning to go on to 
the Savoy for a short time. Harry’s evidently doing the 
theaters with his ‘young dufifer,’ as the Swiss calls the 
fellow, and will probably pluck him, if nothing inter- 
venes.” He looked hard at Ferrars. “My man won’t 
lose sight of them. Want to go on to the Savoy?” 

“By all means,” replied Ferrars, and they set out, not- 
ing, as they skirted the crowd, that Hobson was no 
longer visible. 

Crossing the street, they hastened their steps, and upon 
arriving at the Savoy, took up their station near the 
entrance once more. The crowd here was not dense, 
and they had not long to wait before two men 
approached from the direction of the Vaudeville, walk- 
ing slowly, and entered the vestibule of the Savoy. 

The taller of the two was broad shouldered, dark and 
handsome, after a coarse fashion, while the other was 
smaller, with a weak face and uncertain manner. Both 
were in evening dress, and when they entered the theater, 
Ferrars and the inspector followed. 

“I can stay with you an hour longer,” said the latter. 
“Then I must go about my own affairs.” 

Ferrars nodded. He was watching “Quarrelsome 
tiarry” closely, and after a time, as that personage began 




THE LAST STROKE 


to look about as if in search of some expected face, he 
procured an opera glass and with its aid, began to sweep 
the house. 

Then, suddenly, he started, and after a long look at a 
certain point in the dress circle, he turned quickly toward 
the inspector. 

‘'Do you know anyone in authority here?” he asked. 

‘T know the head usher over there; or, rather, he 
knows me.” 

‘'That will do. Just call him, won’t you? Introduce 
me. Tell him Fm after a crook who is up to mischief 
here, and ask him to help me.” 

After a time this was accomplished, and soon after the 
inspector took his leave. 

And now came the entre-act, and a number of ladies 
left their places and went, some to the cloak room, some 
to the foyer. The two men in whom Ferrars was inter- 
ested went out among many others, and Ferrars followed. 
In the refreshment room they took places at the side, and 
the detective, contrary to his usual plan, passed them, 
and took a place midway between that occupied by the 
two men and a certain table, further down, where a party 
of six were seated. 

To the waiter, who came to serve him, Ferrars said: 
"Send me your chief waiter,” and slipped a coin into his 
willing hand. 

When the chief waiter came, the two exchanged some 
whispered sentences, and then, as the man withdrew, our 
detective addressed himself to his light repast. He had 


248 


THE LAST STROKE 


been careful to keep himself unseen, so far as Harry 
Levey was concerned ; and he had now chosen his seat 
behind a pillar, which hid him from view, while he still 
could, by moving slightly,, look around it. 

It was while taking one of his frequent peeps around 
this pillar that Ferrars saw “Quarrelsome Harry” tear a 
leaf from a small pocketbook and write a few words upon 
it, doing this in the most unobtrusive manner possible, 
with the bit of paper upon his knee. 

Since they had exchanged those few whispered words 
together, Ferrars and the head waiter had not lost sight 
of each other, and now a slight movement of the brows 
brought the man to Ferrars’ table. 

“Now,” whispered the detective, “and be sure you are 
not observed.” 

The man nodded and passed on, seeming to scan, with 
equal interest, each table as he passed it. Nevertheless 
he saw a note slipped into the hand of a vacant faced 
young waiter, and a few words of instruction given. 
Then the young man turned away, and began to move 
slowly toward the opposite side of the room. 

A little beyond Ferrars’ table he encountered the head 
waiter, present arbiter of his destiny. 

“Kit,” said this personage, in a low tone, “slip that 
note you carry into my hand and wait behind the screen 
yonder until I give it back to you. Quick! No non- 
sense, man; and mum’s the word!” 

As between a stranger with a liberal tip, and the aug- 
ust commander of the dining-room corps. Kit did not 


THE LAST STROKE 


249 


hesitate, and a moment later the head waiter dropped the 
note into Ferrars’ palm, with one hand, while he placed 
a bottle of wine beside his plate with the other. 

Putting the bit of paper between the two leaves of the 
menu card, Ferrars boldly read its penciled message. 

^'Drive to The Cafe Royal. Ask to be shown to No. 9. 
I will join you there soon.’’ 

A moment later this note was placed, by Kit, beside 
the plate of the one for whom it was intended. The next, 
Ferrars, having tossed off his glass of light wine, arose 
and sauntered out of the refreshment room. 

But he did not return to the theater. Instead he took a 
cab and was driven to the Cafe Royal. 

Here again he sought out a person in authority, to 
whom he exhibited his star, and a card from Inspector 
Hirsch, and was at once shown to No. 8. 

“If questions are asked,” he said, as he slipped a 
goodly fee into the hand of authority, “remember that 
No. 8 is vacant, but is engaged for an hour later.” 

Left to himself, Ferrars moved a chair close to. the 
wall between himself and number nine. It was but a 
flimsy barrier of wood and he nodded his approval, 
turned down the jet of gas, until it was the merest speck, 
and sat himself down to wait. But not for long; soon he 
heard the next door open, a sweeping rustling sound, 
and the scraping of a chair. Then a bright light flashed 
up, the door closed, and all was still for a short time. 


250 


THE LAST STROKE 


Then, again the door opened, there was a heavy step, 
low voices, and Ferrars knew that he might, if he would, 
lay his hand upon those whom he had sought so long, 
and, for a time, it had seemed, so hopelessly. 

“Are we quite alone here, do you suppose?” It was a 
man’s voice, strong and somewhat gruff. “Let us see.” 
And he rang the bell. The man who had admitted Fer- 
rars, and who had no mind to fall out with the police, 
responded, and at once showed conclusively that the 
adjoining rooms. Nos. 8 and 10, were quite deserted, 
altliough, he admitted, he had locked number eight in 
order to secure it for a party at midnight; whereupon 
wine was ordered and he was at once dismissed. 

“Well,” began the heavier voice again, “why in the 
name of goodness haven’t you pushed things more? I 
told you, from the first, that all was safe. There will be 
no crossing the big pond now. How long do you mean 
to dally?” 

“We can’t dally now,” replied the lighter voice. 
“Didn’t you see the notice in the papers? They are call- 
ing for the heirs. I don’t understand it, but they tell 
me that unless we come forward now, the matter will be 
referred to some other court, and then there must be a 
long delay. No, I must produce those papers now, and 
if there should be any question, any flaw — ” 

“Pshaw!” 

“Or if they should call for further proof of identity, 
you know. Suppose someone should be found, at the last 
moment, acquainted with her!” 


I 


THE LAST STROKE 


251 


‘‘Bosh! How foolish!” 

“Or who remembered me!” 

“I tell you this is folly! Latham’s first wife died so 
long- ago, and at a Swedish spa. And she never had 
many friends. As for relatives, well, we know there are 
none now.” 

“Sometimes I fear the children will remember; that it 
will all come back to them, some day.” 

“I tell you this is simply idotic; the time has come, and 
everything is in train. You have all the papers, certifi- 
cate of marriage, copy of will, and who is to prove that 
the first Mrs. Latham died, and that she was the last of 
the Paisley line, on this side, or the other? You were 
married abroad, you have all her family papers and her 
jewels. Her children call you mother.” 

“And hate me!” 

“Well, that won’t cut any figure. Besides, we must 
have money. You and I have put our little all into this 
scheme. How much longer can we live decently unless 
you claim this estate soon? I must have money! Do 
you mean to see your brother starve?” 

“Plush ! You are not my brother, remember that; only 
my brother-in-law.” 

“All right. How lucky that Latham’s brother never 
came back. Now what did you especially want to say 
to-night?” 

“This. I must meet those lawyers to-morrow.” 

“Oh! And I as nearest male kin, must be your escort, 
and support you through the trying ordeal.” 


252 


THE LAST STROKE 


^‘Not at all. I am especially requested to come alone.” 

‘The d— !” 

“But they will want corroborative testimony, and I 
want to beg of you not to take anything to-morrow, and 
not to stay out the rest of the night. Much depends 
upon the impression we make. And if we should fail — ” 

“We can’t fail; or you can’t. Aren’t you next of kin?” 

Ferrars got up, and crept noiselessly to the door. He 
had heard enough, and he had much to do. A new 
inquiry to open up. He knew that he should find Hob- 
son, who had not been dismissed, outside, and near, and 
he meant to leave “Quarrelsome Harry” to him once 
more. 

“Look after him sharp, Hobson,” he said, when he had 
found the man in the outer room. “And ask the 
inspector to have a warrant ready in the morning. We 
must arrest him to-morrow. He is to be taken for con- 
spiracy and attempted murder. That will do for a begin- 
ning.” And leaving the pair in No. 9 to their plotting, 
and to the watchful care of Hobson, Ferrars hastened 
from the place. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

TWO INTERVIEWS. 

And now let us turn the clock back a few hours, that 
we may relate how Hilda and Ruth made the well laid 
plans of Ferrars of no effect, so far as himself and another 
were concerned. 

Mr. Myers had left the ladies of his party safe in their 
snug quarters at Hampton Court, and went, early, to the 
city to meet Ferrars, as has already been related; but if 
he expected them to remain in statu quo, on such a day, 
and in easy reach of Bond street, it speaks ill for his 
knowledge of women, especially of Ruth Glidden, who 
knew her London well, and who — when Mrs. Myers 
began to long to see the inside of Howells and James, 
and their royal array of painted and other rare china, 
and Hilda looked yearningly over the guide books for the 
city — took matters into her own hands. 

There was no reason why they should not go to town, 
especially, so she privately informed Mrs. Meyers, as 
Hilda was moping. She could guide them, anywhere 
where they might wish to go. 

And this is how the three ladies came to be seen at 
Marshall and Snelgrove’s, linen drapers, so-called; at 
Redmayne’s and Redfern’s and at Jay’s, for Hilda’s som- 
(253) 


254 


THE LAST STROKE 


l^re bedecking. Jay’s has been called the “mourning 
v/arehouse” of the world, not because Jay keeps on tap 
a perennial and unfailing supply of tears, but because “all 
they (feminine) that mourn” may be suitably clad — at 
enormous expense, by the way — by Jay and Co. 

And here it was that our little party, sweeping into 
one of the superb parlors where models display Jay’s 
somber wares, came face to face with Mrs. Jamieson, 
who, seated upon a broad divan, was gazing at a little 
blonde, of her own size and coloring, who displayed for 
her benefit a flowing tea gown of soft, black silk, lighted 
up here and there with touches of gleaming white. 

Of course there were greetings and exclamations, and 
such converse as may be held in so public a place; and 
Ruth, who, somehow, made herself spokesman for the 
party, exclaimed that they had “just run over for that lit- 
tle outing and because Hilda needed the change. “Oh, 
yes; they were well escorted; Mr. Myers was with them, 
and also Mr. Grant.” 

At the name, which was the only one by which she 
knew Ferrars, Mrs. Jamieson flushed and paled, and the 
smile wit-h which she received this news was slightly 
tremulous. And then she told them how she was stop- 
ping, for a short time, with a friend in Bloomsbury. Her 
husband’s business affairs, that had called her so sud- 
denly back to England, were now almost settled. And 
then she should leave London for a time. She had been 
thinking of a place in Surrey; she hoped to be in pos- 
session soon, and then, surely they would not return too 


THE LAST STROKE 


256 


soon for a visit to her, among the Surrey Downs? And 
where were they stopping? 

Upon which Ruth confided the fact that they were not 
yet in permanent quarters. They must be settled soon, 
however, meantime, etc., etc., etc. 

They parted soon, and it was only when they were 
riding homeward that it occurred to them that Robert 
Brierly’s name had not been spoken, and that Ferrars, 
perhaps, would not be best pleased to know of their 
unpremeditated excursion. 

As for the little widow, she went back to Bloomsbury 
in a state of excitement unusual for her. 

To know that “Ferriss Grant” was in London, and 
that she might see him soon, set her pulses beating, and 
her brain teeming with plans for their meeting. What 
had brought him to London just now? What, indeed, 
save herself? Unless — and here she paled and her 
little hands were clinched till the black gloves burst 
across the dainty palms — unless it were Ruth Glidden. 

What was Ruth Glidden to the Grants? she asked her- 
self futilely, and why were they together? And then, for 
ten minutes Mrs. Jamieson wished she had never seen 
Ferris Grant. 

‘T was very well content until then,” she assured her- 
self. “And my future seemed all arranged; and now — ” 
She longed to meet him, and yet — 

“If he had but waited ! or if I had not been so hesitat- 
ing! Now I must go on, and he must not know. A 
month later and I might have received them all in my 


THE LAST STROKE 


sweet Surrey home, have met him with full hands, 
and there would have been no need of explanation, while 
now!” She struck her hands together, and set her lips 
in firm lines. ‘T must see him, once, and then we need 
not meet until all is arranged. If I only knew where to 
send a note.” 

She had been absent since luncheon, and upon her 
arrival at home she found this brief note awaiting her: 

''Mrs. Jamieson. 

"Dear Madam: Being in London for a short time 
only, and with little leisure, I take the liberty of asking if 
I may call upon you in the morning at the unfashionable 
hour of eleven o’clock? Yours respectfully, 

“FERRISS GRANT.” 

It was late when she reached Bloomsbury, and she 
had little time to dress for dinner, and the evening, for 
she was going out again, but. she replied to this note, 
bidding him come, and assuring him of his welcome, at 
any hour. Then, reluctantly, and with a look of distaste, 
amounting almost to repugnance upon her face, she 
began to dress for the evening. 

When Ferrars reached his rooms, after leaving the 
cafe, his lips were set, and his eyes gleamed dangerously, 
for a little time he paced the floor, and then, impelled 
by some thought, he looked to see if any letters had 
arrived during his absence. Yes, there they were, half 
a dozen of them. He glanced at their superscriptions, 
and then opened a little perfumed and black-bordered 


THE LAST STROKE 


257 


(Mivelope. It was Airs. Jaiiiieson’s reply to his note of 
the afternoon, and he read it and put it down slowly. 

“I shall be prompt,” he said to himself, “to keep that 
appointment and, I wonder whether its outcome will 
make me more or less her friend. If it will alter or mod- 
ify my plans; and if, having met this once I shall have 
the courage, the hardihood to meet her again; and to say 
what I must say, if we meet.” He put down the little 
note and took up the one next in interest. 

The handwriting was that of Ruth Glidden, and the 
stationery that of a fashionable Picadilly dressmaker. 

“Dear Air. F.,” so ran the note. 

“T am aware that you did not wish us, any of us, to be 
seen of men, in London, until certain things were accom- 
plished; and I take upon myself all the blame of the little 
journey we. Airs. Alyers, Hilda and myself, took this 
afternoon. We felt quite safe in visiting a few shops ‘for 
ladies only,’ but at the third we met Airs. Jamieson. 
This may, or may not, be of moment to you. At all 
events, I have eased my conscience, and Hilda’s, by let- 
ting you know. Nothing of any moment was said on 
either side, and no questions were asked. 

“Yours penitently, 

“RUTH G.’* 


Over this womanlike note Ferrars wrinkled his brows, 
and, finally, smiled. 

“I had not meant that they should meet until — but 
pshaw! What does it matter? Everything seems urging 
me on, and shaping my course. So be it! It is time for 


258 


THE LAST STROKE 


the last stroke, and to-morrow, before this hour I shall 
be a free man, or a failure.” 

Ferrars was prompt in his appearance at the Blooms- 
bury cottage, and Mrs. Jamieson had been for a long 
half hour awaiting him, alone in the little drawing room. 
Her face was somewhat pale, and there was a hint of 
agitation in her greeting, and a shade of gravity in his. 

She talked of Flilda, and was full of pleasure at their 
meeting; and by and by she spoke of Ruth, her beauty, 
her grace, and style. Was it true that she was an heir- 
ess? And was she not, in some way, related to Miss 
Hilda, and himself? Or perhaps to the Brierlys? 

It was the first mention of that name by either, and 
Ferrars, looking into her eyes, answered. 

‘'She bore the same relation to Robert Brierly that 
ITilda bore to Charles. They had been lovers since 
childhood.” 

“How sad, strange and romantic! How pitiful!” 

“The sadness outweighs the romance, and it is strange 
that the same hand should have struck at the happiness 
of both their friends. I have asked myself,” he went on, 
musingly, what would be the fate of the destroyer of so 
much happiness, if these two girls could be made judge 
and jury, with the slayer at their mercy.” 

“Ugh!” The lady shuddered and turned her face 
away. “The thought is unnatural!” 

“I don’t know; women have been dread enemies before 
now, and are generally good haters. They make great 
criminals, too. But I Jancy a woman must always betray 
herself, at least her sex, in some way.” 


THE LAST STROKE 


250 


“Mefcy!” She crossed the room suddenly to change 
the position of a translucent screen through which the 
sun had begun to filter. “You are positively grewsome, 
Mr. Grant! Let us change the subject. Or, first let me 
ask if they have found any trace of the cr — the person?” 

“The clues have been very unsatisfactory for the most 
part. But the ladies both hope to see justice done yet. 
We all hope it, in fact.” 

“And what is most lacking?” 

“From the first, the motive seemed most difficult to 
discover. But we won’t dwell upon this longer now, 
Mrs. Jamieson.” 

“Ah! And I was just getting up courage to ask 3^ou 
to tell me what had been done, what progress had been 
made; I was so near to being a witness, you know, 
and — ” 

“And of course you are interested, I quite understand 
that. If you really care to hear, Mrs. Jamieson, I will 
tell you the whole story when next we meet. It is quite 
interesting. I will tell you that and other things.” He 
arose and stood before her. “I must not tarry now. 
Shall you be at liberty this afternoon?” 

“I am so sorry. I am promised to my hostess. She 
thinks I live too secluded a, life. But I am about to make 
a change.” She brightened visibly as she told of her 
Surrey prospects, and her hope of seeing his party, and 
himself, there. And then her smile faded. 

“I fear I may not see you again for at least a fortnight. 


m 


THE LAST STROKE 


I have promised Mrs. Latham, my hostess, that I would 
go over to Paris with her. She has been very good to 
me.” She faltered. How long shall you remain in Eng- 
land?” She added. 

“How long shall you remain in England?” 

“More than a fortnight at least.” 

“I shall see you again?” 

“Mrs. Jamieson, never doubt it.” He was drawing on 
a glove, as he uttered the words, and across the busy 
fingers he looked into her eyes. “It was to see you that 
I came to England, and so — ” he bowed low, “till we 
meet.” He caught up his hat and stick, and before she 
could put out a hand had bowed himself from the room, 
and she heard his quick receding step across the little 
vestibule. 

For many moments after, she sat where she had sunk 
down at his sudden going, and presently the slow tears 
fell upon the hands that supported her bowed face. 

For years she had been an unhappy woman, living 
an unloved, unloving life. Then ambition and hope had 
taken hold of her mind, and she had tested herself, and 
found, in that small body, the strength to dare much, and 
to risk much; and now — how she thrilled at the thought 
— wealth, success, and love; all would come to her 
together. What else could his words mean? She had 
only to be courageous, and firm for a little while. To be 
patient for a few more days, and then — She sprang to 
her feet and flung her arms aloft. She wanted to shout 
for triumph. “Victory!” she said aloud. “Is there 


THE LAST STROKE 


261 


another woman in all the world who can say that she has 
conquered fate, and gained all the good she has worked 
and wished for?’’ 

And just then, the maid’s voice broke in upon her 
dream. 

“Madam, the char woman is here for the money. Do 
you still wish me to give her the little suit?” 

The woman turned as suddenly as if Nemesis had 
spoken. 

“Yes!” she said, and the voice was husky, and the face 
almost terror stricken. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

“Ruth.” 

Robert Brierly came up the piazza steps, where Ruth 
sat alone and dropped upon the topmost one, at her 
feet. “I have just received a note from Ferrars.” 

Ruth looked up from her bit of needlework. There 
was a note of suppressed excitement in his tone, which 
she was quick to observe. 

“He seems to have changed his mind,” Brierly went 
on, “and bids me come up with Myers.” 

“To-day?” The work fell from her hands. 

“Now. In half an hour.” 

“But Robert, after all his caution!” 

“Let me read the note, dear,” he said, unfolding the 
sheet he had held in his hand. “It is very brief, and 
pointed:” 

“Dear Brierly: Come up with Myers, and be sure 


262 


THE LAST STROKE 


that you are not observed when you enter Haynes’ office. 
He will know what to do with you. If I have not been 
an awful bungler — and I don’t Aliink I have this time — 
you will stand a free man to-night, able to go up and 
down the earth without menace from the assassin’s knife, 
and will have come into your own, which means a for- 
tune. 

♦‘F^RRARvS.” 

“Ruth,” he spoke softly. “Do you know what that 
means?” 

“Better than you do, perhaps.” She spoke hurriedly, 
as if to gain time, and her cheeks were already aflame. 
“Your mind was so entirely set upon finding Charlie’s 
murderer, Rob., that they thought it best not to risk a 
new anxiety by telling you too much about the other; 
besides, there could be nothing certain, you know, until 
Mr. Myers had investigated. You had a hint of it.” 

“Oh, to be sure. And I have not been quite blind to 
their kindly cunning. Will it be a very great fortune, 
Ruthie?” He caught her hand, and held it fast. 

“Very!” 

“Because if it is, I intend to come back and lay it all 
at your feet, formally, abjectly, and with utmost speed.” 

Ruth wrestled away the imprisoned hand and gave her 
chair a backward push. 

“Robert Brierly, if you dare to come to me and offer 
me a fortune, a hateful old English fortune — that I 
despise; if you only ask me to accept you after you are 
sure of that money, I won’t! I will not! Never!” 

”Ruthie!” She sprang up, but he was before her* 


THE LAST STROKE 


203 


“Oh, you can’t escape now. I intend to propose to you 
this minute. I’ll run no risks, after such a threat as that. 
Ruth, if you run away, I will shout it after you, and Mrs. 
Myers and Hilda are half way down the stairs now. 
Quick, Ruth, dear, will you marry me? I sha’n’t let you 
go until you say yes.” 

And then, in spite of herself, Ruth’s laughter bubbled 
over. 

“You stupid! As if we hadn’t been engaged for years! 
At least I have.” 

Half an hour later when Mr. Myers and Brierly came 
out upon the piazza together they found Ruth awaiting 
them there, equipped for a journey. 

“Why, Ruth,” said the lawyer, “are you going to the 
city?” 

“I am going with you!” the girl replied firmly. “You 
need not argue. I mean to go. And Mr. Ferrars will 
not object. He will need me.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


MRS. GASTON LATHAM 

Solicitor Wendell Haynes sat at his desk, at half past 
two, seemingly busy, while across the room, at a smaller 
desk, sat a second person, with his shoulder toward the 
outer door, and a screen partially concealing him. 
From the inner room came the low hum of voices. At 
the side of the room where the clerk’s desk stood, and 
the tall bookcase towered before the concealed door, the 
curtains were lowered ; but there was a strong light upon 
the solicitor’s corner, and upon the chair, placed near 
his desk, manifestly, for a visitor. 

When Ferrars appeared without the disguise he was 
expected to wear, the solicitor wondered. But the detec- 
tive explained in a few words. He had made certain dis- 
coveries which would enable him to end a very unpleas- 
ant piece of business at once, he hoped. And his disguise 
would only hamper him. 

“I must ask you, however, to add something to your 
role,” he said finally, and at once made plain what more 
would be required of the solicitor. 

As for Ruth Gliddeh, she had waited in dignified 
silence, and much to the wonder of the politely reserved 
(264) 


THE LAST STROKE 


265 


solicitor, until Ferrars appeared, and then she went 
straight to his side. 

“Mr. Ferrars,” she said, so low that the others caught 
only the soft murmur, ‘Tt came to me, almost at the last 
moment, that a woman might not be amiss here now if 
she comes alone. You can trust me, surely?” 

Ferrars gave her a sudden look of gratitude. '‘Thank 
you for showing me my own brutality,” he replied. 
can trust you, and I do thank you; there could have been 
no one else.” And Ruth went back to the inner room 
smiling a little, as she met her lover's eye. 

To guard against all emergencies, the detective had 
left with the inspector, a card telling him, and his men, 
where a telegram would reach him at different hours 
of the day, and at a quarter past two a message arrived, 
bearing the signature of the Swiss. 

"Q. H. and a lady on the way to meet you now.” 

So it ran, and having read it, Ferrars asked: 

'Ts your boy safe, Mr. Flaynes? and trusty?” 

“Quite. I find him really valuable.” 

“Then please instruct him to go and bring a brace 
of policemen, as soon as he has shown the next arrivals 
in.” And he held out the telegram by way of explana- 
tion, adding, as the solicitor read and returned it, “The 
man is coming, too. I can’t just see why. But we will 
soon know. By the way, that door on the north side, 
in the inner room; where does it lead one?” 

“Into a side hall, connecting with the other.” 


266 


THE LAST STROKE 


‘‘I thought so. Then, as soon as they are in, I will 
just slip out, myself, and see my man, who won’t be far 
from your door, you may be sure, once his quarry is 
inside. He will be needed, perhaps, to serve the war- 
rant, which he carries, ready for an emergency. Hist!” 

There was the sound of an opening door, and, as Fer- 
rars seated himself, the office boy entered and announced 
the two visitors. 

The lady, who entered and bowed in stately fashion to 
the solicitor^ was all in gray, except where, here and 
there, a bit of violet protruded. The hair, which was 
white, rather than gray, was worn low about the ears, 
and rolled back from the center of the forehead, giving 
an effect of length to the face. The eyes looked dark, 
behind their gold rimmed glasses, and seemed set far 
back, in dark hollows. The mouth was slightly sunken, 
but the cheeks and chin, though pale, were sound and 
smooth, and the brow showed a scarcely perceptible 
wrinkle, beneath a veil of gray gauze spotted with black. 
She had a plump figure, its fullness accentuated by her 
rustling gray silk gown, with its spreading mantle glit- 
tering with steel beads, and finished with a thick, out- 
standing ruche at the neck. Atop of the high coifed 
white hair, sat a dainty Parisian bonnet, all gray beads 
and violets, and the small hands were daintily gloved, 
in pearl gray. 

‘T have taken the liberty of bringing my husband’s 
brother, Mr. Haynes,” she said, as she advanced into the 
room, '‘Mr. Harry Latham.” 


THE LAST STROKE 


The tall, dark fellow behind her advanced, and prof- 
fered a hand with an air of easy genialty. 

“Mrs. Latham,” he explained, “fancied I might be of 
some use, by way of identification. I hope my presence 
is not de trop; if so — ” 

“You are very welcome, sir. Sit down, pray, and we 
will begin our little inquiry. You have brought the 
papers, Mrs. Latham?” 

Mrs. Latham, who had been looking with something 
like disapproval, upon her aristocratic face, toward the 
partly visible person behind the screen, turned toward 
the speaker, and, as she advanced to lay a packet of 
papers, produced from a little bag, upon the desk, the 
solicitor called out, as if by her suggestion, “Richards, I 
shall not need you, for an hour or more.” And before 
the lady could turn toward him again, the man at the 
desk had vanished through the door just at his back. 

Glancing toward this closed door, the lady seated her- 
self, and drew the packet toward her. “I suppose we 
may begin with these?” she said, untying the packet 
with deft fingers, and laying the papers one by one upon 
the desk before the solicitor, as she talked. “I think all 
the needed proofs are here; my marriage certificate, and 
that of my mother as well; other family papers that 
may, or may not, be of use — letters relating to family 
matters and to the Paisleys of an earlier day — a copy of 
the will of Hugo Paisley, the first, letters announcing 
the deaths of various members of the family; also a copy 
of my grandfather’s will. I think you will find them 


288 


THE LAST STROKE 


quite correct, and conclusive.” She stopped, and looked 
at him inquiringly. “You will need to examine them, 
of course, if only for form’s sake?” she asked, somewhat 
crisply. 

“Possibly, yes. All in good time, madam.” The 
solicitor took up one of the papers, and glanced at the 
first words. 

“I would like to ask,” now spoke Harry Latham, 
“how soon — supposing of course all things are correct, 
and Mrs. Labham’s claim proved — how soon can she 
take personal and complete possession of the property? 
I am a busy man, myself, and my time — ” 

“I fancy you will not be needed after to-day,” broke 
in Mr. Haynes, somewhat abruptly. “As to the prop- 
erty, once the claim is proven there need not be a day’s 
' delay. The late incumbent was a very far-seeing per- 
son.” He turned abruptly to Mrs. Latham. “Madam, 
may I ask why you were not more prompt in putting 
forward your claim to so fine an estate?” 

She turned toward him with a slow smile. 

“That is a most natural question. I did not at first, 
imagine myself a claimant; a certain Plugo Paisley, the 
younger, or his heirs, was before me in the line of suc- 
cession, and I have waited to see if they would not be 
heard from. I had no wish to claim that which might 
not have been mine.” 

“And you are satisfied now that no such heirs exist? 
Of course this must be proven.” 

“Of course, I have been at some pains, and to much 


THE LAST STROKE 


269 


expense, to learn if there were such heirs. With the help 
of friends we made inquiry in the United States, where 
Hugo went years ago. He was never heard of again.’' 

“And was your search rewarded by definite news?” 

“By an accident we learned of a member of the family, 
and through him traced all the remaining ones. They 
were three, a mother' the^reat granddaughter of Hugo 
Paisley, and two sons. The mother has been dead some 
years. They were not a rugged family.” 

“Consumption,” came from the dark man at her 
elbow. 

“Yes, consumption. The two sons died within a few 
months of each other.” 

“I see. And of course you have the proofs of death?” 

“They can readily be proved at need,” the lady coldly 
answered’ 

“Then there remains but one more question. Where 
you are concerned, supposing your claim to be djsputed, 
could you prove beyond a doubt that you are the Bessie 
Cramer, who was the last descendant in this country of 
the Paisleys, your mother having been a Paisley?” 

“Of course!” 

“And you are then able to furnish proof that there was 
no other Mrs. Gaston Latham? That Gaston Latham 
married only one wife?” 

A loud laugh broke upon this speech, and the man 
arose. 

“Would the word of Gaston’s only brother of any 
worth? As a witness to the marriage, the only marriage 


270 


THE LAST STROKE 


of his only brother? Fortunately I knew Miss Bessie 
Cramer as a slim young girl. I was a boy in round- 
abouts then.” 

Solicitor Haynes arose, and looked gravely down 
upon his client, ignoring the man’s words, and even his 
presence. 

‘T must tell you, Mrs. Latham, that there has been a 
claim set up by the American heirs.” 

‘There are no heirs!” warmly. 

“Only yesterday I had a visit from an American gen- 
tleman, a Mr. Myers, attorney-at-law. Do you know of 
him?” 

“I know no Americans, and very little of the country.” 

“Then you have never crossed the ocean?” 

“No, indeed! It’s quite enough for me to cross the 
channel.” 

“Mr. Myers has presented a claim.” The solicitor’s 
eyes were narrowing. 

“For whom?” 

“For — a — I think the name is Brierly; as I was about 
to say, having made an appointment with you, I thought 
it best that you should meet him.” He touched the bell 
at his side, as he spoke the last word. 

“But,” interposed the man, “this is some old claim, or 
else a fraud! The Brierlys are dead!” The last words 
harshly guttural. 

The office boy had entered now, and Mr. Haynes 
quietly gave his order. 

“See if Mr. Myers is in number seventeen, William.” 


THE LAST STROKE 


271 


^'Mr. Haynes,” said Mrs. Latham, with a touch of 
haughtiness, “Why should I need to see this man? These 
deaths can be proved.” 

The solicitor bowed formally. “So much the worse 
for Mr. Myers, and his claim,” he said. “Of course you 
must meet him; there’s no other alternative. He is a 
gentleman, and he certainly believes in his claim.” 

“He’s not up to date, then,” interposed the brother- 
in-law somewhat coarsely, and even as he spoke the door 
opened and Mr. Myers having taken his way around by 
the side hall, entered, hat in hand. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE EAST STROKE. 

As the solicitor turned toward the newcomer the man 
and woman exchanged glances, and while he was still 
confident, not to say defiant, he looked to the unobserv- 
ant solicitor with a nervous apprehensive glance, and 
leaning toward her would have whispered a word of his 
anxiety; but she shook her head, and the next moment 
the solicitor was naming them to each other and, as Mr. 
Myers paused before the lady, continued with the utmost 
directness. 

“Mr. Myers, this lady denies the existence of any and 
all American heirs. She fears you may have been 
deceived. Do you know this man Brierly to be living 
at present?” 

“I believe him to be living.’’ 

“Mr. Myers,” said the lady sweetly, “I am very sorry 
to think or say it, but you have certainly been grossly 
tricked! If you have seen a would-be claimant, you 
have seen a fraudulent one. How long, may I ask, since 
you left America?” 

“I have been in England for some time, and I will 
admit, madam, that I do not quite understand this case 
in all its details. Still, may it not be possible that you 
(272) 


THE LAST STROKE 


m 

have been misled? There seems to have been compli- 
cations.” He checked himself, and appeared to be con- 
sidering his next words, then he resumed. “I think I 
can help to clear up this misunderstanding. I brought 
with me here a young man lately from the United States. 
He claims to have seen a Mr. Brierly very recently. 
With your permission I will ask him to join us.” 

The Lathams again exchanged swift glances, and the 
man gave his head a quick negative shake. But the 
solicitor went promptly to the door. They did not hear 
the brief order he gave the boy, and he did not come 
back at once. 

“Who is this young American who has seen the invis- 
ible? And how came he here to-day?” asked the man 
who was now frowning heavily, and moving restlessly in 
his seat. “What is his name?” 

Mr. Myers had picked up a book off the desk, and 
was turning its pages slowly. He seemed hardly to hear 
the fellow's words. 

“He’s a very bright young fellow,” he said musingly. 
“I don’t think he would be easily deceived. He’s quite 
a clever detective, in his way.” He was studying the 
pair from under bent brows. Just then Mr. Latham’s 
hat fell from his hands to the floor, and before he had 
recaptured it, the solicitor had entered, followed by a 
serious faced young man, whom he carelessly named to 
the two strangers. 

“Mr. Grant.” 


274 


THE LAST STROKE 


The lady’s hand went suddenly to her heart, and her 
face was ashen, beneath the dotted veil. 

“Are you ill, madam?” 

“A twinge,” she faltered. 

‘Tt’s neuralgia,” declared the man, drawing his chair 
toward her. “She’s subject to these sharp attacks. Bet- 
ter, Bessie?” 

She nodded, and fixed her eyes upon “Mr. Grant,” to 
whom Mr. IMyers was saying: 

“This lady. Grant, is positive that the Brierlys, of 
whom you have talked to me, are not now living. There 
has been tricking somewhere, and deception. Will you 
help us to understand one another?” The lawyer’s face 
had grown very grave. 

Francis Ferrars seated himself directly before the 
woman, whose eyes never left his face nOw, and were 
growing visibly apprehensive. 

“There has been more than tricking, worse than deceit 
here, and if I am to make it clear to you, madam, I must 
begin at the beginning. So far, at least, as I know it.” 

The woman bent her head slightly. “Go on,” said the 
man. He had never seen Ferrars either in “propria per- 
sona,” or as Ferriss Grant. 

The detective began with a brief sketch of the Brierly 
brothers, and then described, vividly, the discovery of 
Charles Brierly’s dead body beside the lake at Glenville. 
He paused here and his voice grew stern as he resumed. 

“I had never seen Charles Brierly in life, but, standing 
beside his dead body, looking down into that face so 


THE LAST STROKE 


275 


lately inspired by a manly, strong soul, I knew that here 
was murder. There was no possibility of accident, and 
such men, I know, do not cheat death by meeting him 
half way. It was a murder and yet he had no enemies, 
they said. 

“The case interested me from the first, and when I 
had seen the sorrow of the fair girl he loved, and who 
loved him, I gave myself eagerly to the work of seeking 
the author of this most cowardly blow. 

“That night I walked the streets of Glenville alone, 
and, passing a certain fashionable boarding house, I saw, 
in a room lighted only by the late moonbeams, the 
shadow of a woman, who paced the floor with her bare 
arms tossing aloft in a pantomine of agony, or shame.” 

He glanced about him. The two lawyers were stand- 
ing, side by side, near the door, erect and stern. The 
man in the chair opposite, was affecting an incredulous 
indifference. The room was intensely still when the 
voice ceased and no one stirred or spoke. 

“Next morning, early, I viewed the scene of the crime, 
and I saw how easily the destroyer might have crept 
upon an unsuspecting victim, owing to the formation of 
the shore, the shelter of the trees and shrubs, and the 
protection of the curving Indian Mound. There had 
been showers two days before, and in certain spots, 
where the sun did not penetrate, the earth was still moist 
under a huge tree, just where the slayer might have 
stood, I found the print of a dainty shoe, or rather, the 
pointed toe of it, In two other shelterod places I found 


27G 


THE LAST STROKE 


parts of other footprints, and, a little off the road, in a 
clump of underbrush, I found two well formed foot- 
prints, all alike, small, and pointed at the toe. But I 
found something more in that hazel thicket. I found 
my first convincing, convicting clue. It was just a 
shread, a thread of a black mourning veil, such as wid- 
ows wear. Later I found a poor simpleton, who had 
been in the wood on the morning of the murder and who 
had been horribly terrified. For a time he would only 
cry out that he had seen a ghost, but by and by he grew 
more communicative and, from what he then said — for 
he described the ‘ghost,’ at last as a thing all white with 
a black face — I knew how to account for a white frag- 
ment which I found not far from the black one. A hired 
carriage had passed over that lakeside road on that fatal 
morning, and I learned that the lap cover with it was 
‘large and white.’ Large enough to cover a woman of 
small stature, who, with a black veil drawn close across 
her features, and rising suddenly from among that clump 
of hazel, could easily terrify a simpleton into leaving the 
place where his presence was a menace.” 

He paused a moment, but he might as well have been 
looking upon carven statues. No one stirred, no one 
spoke, and he resumed his fateful story. 

“Then came the inquest. I believed, even then, that 
I knew the hand that took Charles Brierly’s life. But I 
did not know the motive, and, until I did, my case was 
a weak one. Besides, a woman sometimes strikes and 
still deserves our pity and protection. ‘T must know the 


THE LAST STROKE 


277 


motive/ I said, and waited. Then, at the inquest, as 
Robert Brierly, the brother of the dead man, whose pres- 
ence in the town was known to only a few, came for- 
ward to testify, a woman, who did not know him, and 
whom he did not know, fainted at sight of him, and was 
taken out of court. Then I knew the motive.” 

“Ah-h-h!” A queer sighing sound escaped the lips 
of the woman still sitting stonily erect before him, 
but he hurried on. 

“But knowledge is not always proof — in a court of law 
— and I must have proof. That night a woman, dressed 
as a boy, by courage and cunning combined, forced her 
way into the rooms so lately occupied by Charles 
Brierly. Fear of detection had begun its work upon her 
mind, and she went, most of all, to try and throw justice 
off the track. In Brierly’s desk she left a letter, very 
conspicuously placed, an anonymous letter, so framed 
as to throw suspicion upon the dead man’s betrothed. 
This again, showed the woman’s hand. She also carried 
away a watch, a pistol, and some foreign jewelry and 
dainty bric-a-brac, to make the work seem that of a 
thief; and last, she found, upon a letter file, a newspaper 
clipping, which she also carried away. If she had left 
that I might have overlooked its value. As it was I 
found the paper from which it had been cut, secured a 
second copy, and discovered my clue to the tangle. It 
was an advertisement for the heirs of one Hugo Paisley, 
and I soon found that the Brierly brothers were the 
sought-for heirs. Then I knew that Robert Brierly’s life 


278 


THE LAST STROKE 


was also menaced, and T warned him, and tried to set a 
guard about him. 

‘Hn the meantime a boat had been found, not far from 
the scene of the shooting; it had been seen on the lake 
that morning, and its occupant was a spy, keeping watch 
up and down the road, and the hillsides, while his con- 
federate carried out their program of death. I had 
already fixed upon the woman, and now we began to 
look for the man.’' 

Just here the man calling himself Latham, got up 
stiffly, and moved toward the window near the clerk’s 
desk, where he leaned against the casement as if looking 
down upon the street. No one seemed to notice him, 
and the narrator went on. 

“And now I had to find my final convincing proofs of 
the motive and the deed. The brothers Brierly were, 
all unknown to themselves, the heirs to the Paisley 
estates, and of hlugo Paisley, by descent. Through 
some error the murderers of Charles Brierly had been 
led to think him the sole living member of the family, 
and when Robert Brierly stood forth at the inquest, the 
woman who had shot down his brother with hand and 
heart of steel, fell fainting, at the sight of him, and, per- 
haps, at the thought of her wasted crime. 

“And now it was a drawn game, in which both sides 
were forced to move with caution, and, for a time, I 
could only watch the woman, on the one hand, and the 
safety of Robert Brierly, on the other, for he now stood 
between the plotters and their goat. 


THE LAST STROKE 


279 


despite my watchfulness, the second blow fell. 
And the first time Robert Brierly ventured upon the city 
street alone, after dark, he was struck down, almost at 
his own door. It was a dangerous hurt, and, lest the 
assassins should find a way to complete their work, we 
took him away, as soon as he could be moved.’' 

The woman was sitting very erect now, her eyes 
smouldering behind the gleaming glasses, her hands 
tightly clinched upon her knee. 

‘T knew that we must force the issue, then,” Ferrars 
went on. “And Mr. Myers came over here to substan- 
tiate his client's claim to the Paisley estates, and to look 
up the pedigree, the past and present history, of the 
other claimants. How well he succeeded need not here 
be told. He did succeed.” 

Mrs. Latham had risen to her feet, and, for a moment, 
seemed struggling for composure, and the power to 
speak clearly. 

“All this,” she said then, “which is very strange, does 
not explain why you dispute my claim in favor of a dead 
man. As for this murder — if you have proved what you 
charge — ” 

“One moment,” Ferrars broke in. “Let me add, in 
that connection, that one night, one of my agents in the 
character of a burglar, entered this woman’s room at her 
hotel in Glenville. She found in a trunk, the veil from 
which the black fragment, found on the bush, was torn; 
and also a suit of boy’s clothes. The veil she brought 
away, the clothes were given away to a poor woman only 


280 


THE LAST STROKE 


this morning, and she sold them to my agent. As for 
the man, he has been traced by the stolen watch and 
jeweled ornaments. He tried to sell, and did pawn, them 
in Chicago, in New York, and here in London. In fact 
the chain of evidence is complete ; nothing more is 
needed to convict these two.” 

The woman’s face was white and set. “After all,” she 
said in a hollow voice, “you have not proved that the 
Paisley estate is not mine by right. “Mr. Brierly, the 
elder, being dead!” 

“Even so, the second wife of Gaston Latham cannot 
inherit, and her brother even in the character of brother- 
in-law, cannot share the inheritance. One moment,” 
for the woman seemed about to speak. “Let me end 
this. Last night, in room number eight at a certain cafe, 
I heard the plotters in conference, and I know that the 
daughter of Mrs. Cramer, who would have inherited 
after the Brierlys, is dead. The game is up, Mr. Harry 
Levey. You and your sister have aimed two heavy 
strokes at the happiness of two noble women, and the 
lives of two good men, but the final stroke is mine ! And 
now, Mrs. Jamieson, if that is — ” He did not finish the 
sentence. The man Levey had drawn closer and closer 
to the inner door, while Ferrars spoke, and now with a 
swift spring he hurled himself against it, plunged for- 
ward and would have fallen had not Ferrars, always 
alert, bounded after him, and caught him as he fell. For 
the inner door had opened suddenly, at his touch, and 
when Ferrars drew the now struggling man backward. 







THE LAST STROKE 


283 


and away from it, the others in the room saw, in the 
doorway, a man and woman side by side. 

At sight of Robert Brierly’s face the woman, who had 
faced the ordeal of denunciation and conviction almost 
without a quiver, threw up her hands, and uttering a 
shrill scream, a cry of mortal terror and anguish, fell for- 
ward upon her face. 

Then came a moment of excited movement, which 
would have been confusion but for the quick wit of Ruth 
Glidden, and the coolness and energy of the detective. 

While the entrapped villain was struggling like a fiend 
in the grasp of four strong men, Ruth knelt beside the 
fallen woman and lifted her head. 

The next moment, two or three officers came hasten- 
ing in, and Ferrars and Brierly, seeing their captive in 
safe hands, came together to her aid. She looked up at 
them with a questioning face. 

“Did you know?” she asked, her face full of horror. 
“Did you know her?” 

Ferrars nodded, and as the officers led their captive, 
cursing and blustering, out at one door, he lifted the 
senseless woman, and carried her to the couch in the 
inner room. 

“Bring water!” Ruth commanded, “and leave her to 
me.” 

As the twO' men closed the door between them and 
the two, so strangely different women, Brierly laid a 
hand upon the detective’s shoulder. 

“Ferrars,” he said, “What did Ruth mean? Who is 


284 


THE LAST STROKE 


that terrible woman? And how is she eoncerned in your 
story? It is time I should know the truth.” 

“Quite time. That woman is Mrs. Jamieson, or the 
person you knew under that name. She is cleverly dis- 
guised, but I expected some such trick. She went to 
“the states” to rid herself of you and your brother; and 
she took that man, who is really her ov/n brother, and 
who tried to kill you, as her fellow criminal.” 

“And did she — ” Brierly stopped shuddering. 

“She shot your brother; there is not a doubt of it.” 

“My God! And I thought — they were alone in the 
office.” And Brierly dropped weakly into the nearest 
chair and dropped his face upon his hands. 

“You thought,” finished Ferrars, “that I was inter- 
ested in the woman. I was. I suspected her from the 
very first, and so did Hilda Grant.” 

In the inner room, Mrs. Jamieson opened her eyes and 
looked up to meet the gaze of the fair woman who was 
in all things what she was not. 

Ruth bent over her, a glass of water in her hand. 

“Drink this, Mrs. Jamieson,” she said simply. 

A shudder like a death throe shook the recumbent 
form. She lifted herself by one elbow, and caught at 
the glass, drinking greedily. Then, still holding the 
glass, she said slowly: 

“Then you know me?” 

“Yes.” 

“How?” 


THE LAST STROKE 


285 


“By your voice, a little, but mostly by what Mr. 
Ferrars said.” 

“Mr. Ferrars!” she gasped. “Do you mean him?” 

“I mean the man you have called Grant. Did you 
never guess that he was a detective?” 

“And he knew!” The woman arose to her full height 
and again, as on a night long since, and in another 
country, her arms were tossed above her head, as Ruth 
nodded her answer, and for a moment her face was awful 
to look upon, so tortured, so despairing, so full of wrath 
and wretchedness and soul torture and heart agony, for 
women can love and suffer, though their souls be 
steeped in crime. 

Ruth, who had taken the half emptied glass from her 
hand as she struggled to her feet, now put it down, and, 
startled l)y her look and manner, moved toward the 
door, but the woman, her face ghastly, cried “Stop!” 
witli such agonized entreaty that the girl drew back. 

“Don’t! — I can’t see him yet — Wait! — Let me — ” She 
sank weakly back upon the couch, and Ruth noted, while 
turning away for a moment, how her hand toyed with 
her dainty watchguard, in seeming self forgetfulness, 
drawing forth the little watch, a moment later, and look- 
ing at it, as if the time was now of importance. Then 
she threw herself back against the cushions. 

“My — vinaigrette — my bag!” she moaned between 
gasping breaths. 

The little bag had been left in the outer office, where 
it had fallen from her lap, and Ruth opened the door of 


280 


THE LAST STROKE 


communication a little way and asked for it, saying*, as 
Ferrars came toward her, “Not yet.” 

As Ruth turned back, she heard a sharp little click, 
like the quick shutting of a watch case, and when she 
held out the vinaigrette, Mrs. Jamieson was swallowing 
the remainder of the water in the glass. 

“Your salts, Mrs. Jamieson.” 

The woman looked up with a wild scared look in her 
eyes, and held out, for an instant, the little jeweled 
watch. 

“For years,” she said, in a slow, strange monotone, “I 
have faced and feared danger, and failure. For years I 
have been prepared! Because of my cowardice, and my 
conscience. I have always kept a way of escape.” Her 
fingers fluttered aimlessly and the watch fell upon her 
lap. Her last words seemed to come through stiffening 
lips. Her face grew suddenly ghostly gray. Ruth 
sprang toward the door. 

“Don’t let him come yet.” With these words the dying 
woman seemed to collapse, and sank limply back into the 
cushions; her head drooped, her chin dropped. 

Ruth flung open the door with a cry of terror, and the 
four men — for the two lawyers had returned from their 
escort duty — gathered about the couch. They saw a 
shudder pass over the limp frame. The fingers fluttered 
again feebly, there was a spasmodic stiffening of the fig- 
ure — and that was the end. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

Four weeks later, a group of people were standing 


THE LAST STROKE 


287 


Upon the dock of a homeward bound steamer, about to 
set out upon h^i‘^:'^ean vo}'ag-e. They were five in num- 
ber, and they weie welcoming, each in turn, the man 
who had just joined them. 

There had been a quiet wedding, a few days before, at 
a little English church, and Ruth Glidden had become 
Ruth Brierly as simply as if she were not an heiress, 
and her newly made husband not the owner of English 
lands, houses, stocks and factories, that changed him into 
a millionaire. 

“I could see no good reason for delay,” Brierly was 
saying, as he grasped the hand of Ferrars, whose con- 
gratulations had been Jijearty and sincere. Neither of us 
have need to consult aught save our own wishes; and 
besides our nearest friends are with us.” 

^‘Besides,” interposed the smiling woman at his side, 
“we have been an encumbrance upon Mr. and Mrs. 
Myers for so long — and it was really the only conven- 
tional way to relieve them of so many charges. And then 
— ” and here she lowered her tone, and glanced toward 
TIilda Grant, who, having already greeted Ferrars, was 
standing a little aloof, “we can now make a home for 
Hilda, and have a double claim on her.” 

“In all of which you have done well,” smiled Ferrars. 
“My only regret is that I must bring into this parting 
moment an unpleasant element, but you may as well 
hear it from me.” He beckoned the others to approach; 
and, when they were close about him, said, speaking 


288 


THE LAST STROKE 


low and gravely: “ ‘Quarrelsome Harry’ has escaped the 
punishment of the law.” 

“Escaped!” It was Mr. Myers, who repeated the 
word. “Do you mean — ” 

“I mean that he is dead. He was shot while trying to 
escape. He had feigned illness so well that they were 
taking him to the hospital department. He tried a rush 
and a surprise, but it ended fatally for him. He was shot 
while resisting re-arrest.” 

“It is better so,” said Mr. Myers. “They have been 
their own executioners. What could the law have added 
to their punishment?” 

“Only the law’s delays,” said Ferrars, and then he 
turned to Hilda Grant. 

“This is not a long good-bye,” he said gently. “At 
least I hope not. I shall be back in ‘the states’ soon. 
And, may I not still find a cousin there? Or must I stand 
again outside the barrier alone?” 

“You will always find an affectionate cousin,” said 
Hilda, putting out her hand. 

And now it was time to leave the ship. All around 
them was the hurry of delayed farewells, the bustle of 
late comers, the shifting of baggage, smiles, tears, last 
words. 

Ferrars would remain for a time in London, but he 
knew, as he answered to the call “all ashore,” that when 
he returned to the United States he would find in one 
of her fair western cities, a warm welcome and a lasting 
friendship. 


THE LAST STROKE 


289 


The plot, by which the beautiful tigress-hearted 
woman whom they had known as Mrs. Jamieson had 
hoped to achieve riches, was cleverly planned. The real 
claimant had died in a remote place, and there were no 
near friends to look after her interests, or those of her 
young children. And then Harry Levey’s sister, beau- 
tiful, and an adventuress, from choice, like her brother, 
had beguiled Gaston Latham, and had, by frequent 
changes of abode, by cunning, and by fraud, merged her 
own personality into that of the former wife. Then had 
come the baffling discovery of heirs in America, the plot- 
ting and scheming to remove them from their path — and 
the shameful end. 

“Ferrars is a strange fellow,” said Robert Brierly to 
his wife, one moonlight night, as they sat together, and 
somewhat aloof from the others on deck. ”Do you 
know he was the sole attendant, except for her servants, 
at that woman’s burial. He went in a carriage alone. 
Was it from sentiment, or sympathy, think you?” 

It was the first time the dead woman had been spoken 
of, by either, since that trying day of her exposure and 
death, and Ruth was silent a moment, before she 
answered; the awful scene coming vividly before her. 
Then she put her hand within her husband’s arm, and 
said, slowly, softly: 

“It was because he is a good man; because she was 
a woman without a friend, and because she loved him.” 

There was a long silence, and it was Ruth who next 
spoke. 




290 THE LAST STROKE 

“Have you ever thought, or hoped ,that the friendship 
and trust that has grown out of Hilda’s relation to Mr. 
Ferrars might, sometime, end in something more?” 

“No, dear, and this is why: Yesterday, Ferrars said to 
me, ‘There is a friend over in Glenville whom I hope 
you will not forget. Let him be your guest. And, if the 
day should come when your sweet sister that was to be 
should enter society and be sought by others, give the 
doctor his chance. He has loved her from the first.” 

Ruth sighed. 

“Hilda is too young to go through the world loveless 
and alone. Yes, and too sweet. And the doctor is a 
noble man. But all this we may safely leave to the 
future, and to their own hearts.” 


TFIE END. 





BOOKS FOR EVERY-DAY USE 



In the Home, School, Shop 
and Office 

Lee’s 

Pony Reference 
Library 

As A Handy Reference Library, 
This Set is Without a Peer 
IN THE English Lan- 
guage 

It covers every imaginable subject, and each volume is so thoroughly 
classified and admirably arranged, as to make it a pleasure, rather than a task, 
to find what you seek and find it at once. Can not be duplicated for ten 
times the price. The five volumes are ; 

THE MODERN WEBSTER DICTIONARY 
LEE’S POCKET ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA 
LEE’S PRICELESS RECIPES 
LEE’S HOME AND BUSINESS INSTRUCTOR 
CONKLIN’S HANDY MANUAL AND 
WORLD’S ATLAS (Revised and Enlarged) 

They contain : 201)5 pages, 248 illustrations, 50 colored maps, 30 flags of 
the nations and 0 full page keyed maps showing points of interest throughout the 
world. The greatest book=making triumph of the nineteenth century. 


PRICES I’erSet 

In a lk)x Single Copies 

• EXTRA SILK CLOTH, marbled edges, head>banded $3.00 $0.75 

MOROCCO, full gilt 5.00 1.00 


Note — Flags of nations are in morocco set only. 

SENT TO ANY ADDRESS ON RECEIPT OF PRICE 

A Rare, Rich Harvest for Agents.. Write forTerms 


LAIRD & LEE...PUBL1SHERS 
263=265 Wabash Ave... Chicago 






fjyt 




in 




^■■■y.KiS.r:j,^:., ... 

» r 


M 


# 




rt." 


IftU 




. 1 / 




:^i‘ 


i\.» 


?.w 


M 


t\ 


n*' 


f; 








t r' 




V 


■ m, 


,n 


4'-f 


^:i 


*• :s\ 


■j:st 


it 


hf ^ ! . - * i 


• ' * W 


■'^ V', >« . it* 




*i:’ * 


r*. 


irt 






p}f V^;r-vo;f]r^,V 


ii '■ 

,ri ^ r, 






♦v »>, 


^i 


y:^ 


I > 






» V 


t.'*'^- ■ ■ i .--4 - ‘*L' 

: . r ♦ M . ,, Zv 










«l I 


-< •' 




i>. 


i!»r^ 


* Qi/ ® 

*r- • • » . 


»M 


^ 4 


I ' 


" 1 « 

''' , - 

' -k. ■tV'.^'-i"«>'' 

I ■ 




''■Vi' 


4 ?i,’ 


V 


n 


<'J 


AJIl.- !'- 

*7 *• , • 




il 






I 


,l»' 




jmUAiifeafajy *' 


f 


if* 






'-'■ r ' 


« I 


• ,V 


i-W’ 


i'. ■": 


VI. 


' 1 . 








hxiK 






,i ^ 


*/->*" “ 


1^: 






••V; 


, . j , . , .. y,^ . «ll^ 

I v !.*♦* 1^’ ' ' A 




i: V 


l| 4 r 

P »{ L 


i I 


I ■ 




IV ■ t. . 


fW 




¥ 


f! I 




A 




ij« 




W'‘< 


%. 


[' L 


-»«i 


jy '-.iKiji!' 

-31#' 

, ‘ f ' A. 

V V , 

_!L..^ K’St . 






V -i< 




J ••, 


I y , 


/ ..> 


t. i 


&<4 


S' 






4 • 






^1 


mA. 


i ’.;»i-^ 

i?''' 


' ' . '*•! 


. T *4A'xr\ 


. ■ ■ ': r. -'A' ''^ c« 




1 1 


5 


1 * 4^1 




I 


I • 




•#}IK 


s; 


* A 




i.u 




j-ya 


S' 


.*Vi' 




*ifi‘ 




♦Si 




^1 






■^i} 


:>.\i 




L« 1 «M 


>> 1 


*’ r • 




'1 


> 7 t I ' 


>t. 


mWs. 


r V 




•ik« 


r 


U‘. 


k4 


k' t 


u 


M- 






H 






K 




;i 




I 


!» * 




yi, 




♦. t 




Vi 




'iv* 








>■•.■»■ 


■ »' 


ify 






ff * f; 






»• * 






!:■ 












nA 


'lU ^ 




‘V 




vi 


a 


•l> 


7 ^ 


1> 


►C'* K,SJ 


FT.' 


t 




’■A 


i< 


I 


*r. 


u trA ‘ 


A 1- 




♦ * ‘ff. 


hK.i 4 !! 



























